The Reviews Lounge Birthday Ficathon
by The Reviews Lounge
Summary: Welcome to the Reviews Lounge Birthday Ficathon - each story was written by a different author, tailor made for another author at our forum. Several characters and pairings are featured, and we'd love it if you left a review for each one of them.
1. Recipient: Realmer06

Hi, and welcome to the latest Reviews Lounge project, a ficathon. Each author wrote a story, based on the wishes of a recipient. The author of each story will remain anonymous until the end of April, at which time they will all be revealed.

We really hope you enjoy all the stories in the collection, and that you leave each author, whoever they may be, a review.

**Disclaimer: **We own nothing. Each story is the property of its individual author, and all characters, settings and ideas you recognise belong to JK Rowling.

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Title: **She Will Always Have Laughter

**Author: **?

**Recipient:** Realmer06

**Character/Pairings: **Lavender Brown, Bill Weasley. Couples mentioned: Lavender/Seamus Finnigan, Bill/Fleur Weasley

**A/N: **Some of the inspiration for the first part of this piece comes from our own Lady Altair's _Gone Grey _and _Songbirds and Silk_ and roses-at-sunset's _Reinvention_, which can be found on her LJ page. Thank you to Sara Winters for beta-reading this.

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Lavender Brown should've been expecting it. But, for some reason, whenever Bill Weasley stopped by to see her, it surprised her all the same. After all, the man was married to Fleur Delacour. And Fleur was many things: a Champion, a talented witch, and beautiful. Indescribably so.

And Lavender was—

Well, she was permanently scarred. Not so beautiful any more. If a bloke had to choose a witch to spend his free time with, wouldn't the answer be obvious?

"Bill, hello again," Lavender managed, feebly attempting a smile.

"Morning, Lavender." His smile was far bigger and more real.

She couldn't meet his eyes. Instead, she occupied her hands with picking at the quilt on her bed. Seamus Finnigan had found it; he had scrounged around for some Galleons to order it for her.

She suspected that he had found a job whenever he was away from her bedside, and she had one guess as to where he worked. Often times, he'd come to her room and his scent would remind her of Hogwarts when the twins were there, testing their products on the younger students: faint traces of sulphur and gunpowder, with the occasional exploding blister on his hands. She asked him no questions about his whereabouts, although he'd often come by with Ron and they'd be covered in soot and stink and sometimes fur. She wanted to laugh at the pair of them; they looked ridiculous after all. Seamus would want to buy her things — pretty, colourful things — and she'd insist that he did not need to, that he should save his money.

Although Lavender had to admit that the quilt was beautiful. She marvelled at the colours, the iridescent reds and golds, the oranges, greens and blues that shimmered in the light of her room at St. Mungo's. The quilt certainly gave the otherwise dull space life. It gave her the colour that had been absent from her life for so long, colour that she so desperately needed. To live without all that beauty was the price she and other girls had to pay though, to blend in, to not draw Carrow's attentions, lest they found themselves alone with him in a corridor at night.

Lavender smoothed the fabric with her palms. It did make her feel better to have something that was so beautiful, something imbued with such joy. And something that reminded her so much of Seamus. Through the quilt, he surrounded her body, even if he could not physically do so per her Healers' orders.

"You look good today," Bill said. He smiled as he pulled up a chair next to her bed.

She blinked and turned to face him, a small but knowing grin emerging on the uncovered side of her face. "You're lying."

He chuckled. "I don't lie. I'm incapable of it without blushing." He swirled a finger around his face. "Do you see any red?"

Lavender cocked her only eyebrow at him and giggled softly. "No, I guess not." She cleared her throat. "You came today."

"Of course. Should I not have?"

"I don't know. I know you that you say you'll be back for another drop in on me, but I'm always surprised when you do. Guess you don't want me to feel bad about . . ." Her voice faded away as she gestured at her bandages. Lavender sighed, a sad smile on her face. "Bill, why do you keep coming here to visit me?"

"I like visiting you, for one. Why? Do you want me to leave?"

"No!" she said a little too enthusiastically. She giggled again. "Sorry. Didn't mean to sound so excited."

"Well, damn! Here I was hoping that most witches get giddy at the thought of spending time with me. But alas!"

Lavender laughed, shaking her head. "I like it when you come by and visit. Any time anyone comes by to visit, and it isn't Madame Crotchety and her Therapy Regime of Pure Evil."

"Isn't that Madame Crochey? Pronounced '_crow - shay_'?"

"Crotchety is a far more appropriate name for that woman. I think the bint got her bedside manners from the Carrows."

Bill stared at her shocked for a few seconds. And suddenly, he laughed. He laughed so hard that Lavender saw his eyes water.

"What I said couldn't possibly have been that funny."

Bill inhaled, regaining his composure. "I don't know if it was, but it was a fine joke and I was surprised you made it. And colour me shocked that you can even joke about the Carrows after what they did to you and the other students."

"Well, what else are you going to do? What else _can _you do but laugh? Cry? Wail about all the injustice?" She snorted rather daintily. "That's silly, you know?"

He looked at her pensively. "You know what I always told people about my injuries?" he asked, his voice low and serious. "About what the worst after-effects were?"

She shook her head.

"That Fleur has to cook all my steaks very rare. 'Practically mooing' is what we'd say."

Lavender made a gagging gesture. "Rare meat? Sounds disgusting."

"You never know; you might end up liking it."

"Not bloody likely. No pun intended."

They paused for a second, and then they laughed. They laughed until they both clutched their stomachs, Bill with both of his arms, Lavender with her right.

After a few more chuckles and snorts, she calmed down and watched Bill rub his eyes.

"How long did it take for you to make jokes?"

He regarded her, catching his breath. "Excuse me?"

She almost regretted asking the question, finding her voice weak, quite unlike the girl earlier who could refer to Death Eaters so flippantly as a punchline. She simply couldn't, not yet. Her wounds were too fresh and her bandages were still stuck to her face. And St. Mungo's matrons had taken to their strongest Spellhesives to make sure she didn't try to peel off her latest dressings.

Again.

"Lavender, did you ask me how long it took for me to make jokes? Do you mean after Greyback attacked me?"

She nodded, but she couldn't look at him. For the second time since Bill came for his visit, she focused her gaze on her quilt. "I'm not sure if I can. Or if I'll ever be able to."

"Hey." He took her hand into his. She looked up, her eyes drawn to his. "You don't have to now, you know? If it takes something as small as asking the nurses for a flea bath—"

Lavender couldn't stop her laughter from bursting forth.

"Or, you know, trying your hand at 'Finnigan hunting'."

She chortled, her face growing red.

"Oh see?" Bill said with a laugh and a nod. "You're already halfway there."

She reached up with her good arm and gently punched him on the shoulder. "I'm not the one making the jokes right now. You are."

"Yeah, maybe. But if you can crack wise about the Carrows, after everything they did to you, then you'll be able to see the funny side to this." He gestured to his own face. "Someday."

"I'd like to think so. But Bill, what if the bandages come off, a-and," Lavender felt her throat constrict; she could barely breathe. "What if what I see in the mirror can't laugh back."

"Then it'll be Finnigan, or me, or — Merlin forbid! — Ickle Ronniekins doing something to make sure you will. Lavender, honestly I see it in you."

"What?"

"Your laugh. Your spirit. _Your soul_." He regarded her with a broad smile, looking almost beastly although she knew that was not his intention; he didn't do soft well, not with the more rugged landscape of his face. Lavender couldn't help but wonder if she would no longer be soft once she healed completely.

"My soul? That sounds a bit deep."

He shrugged. "I'm a surprisingly deep bloke. No, really Lavender. I know you well enough now to know you're a survivor. Look at everything you've been through."

She swallowed, but nodded slowly.

"The last two years at Hogwarts alone, with the start of the war. And your seventh year! You handled the Carrows brilliantly."

"Mostly it was Neville and Ginny and the others in the D.A. Seamus took the Cruciatus far more than I ever did. Even Michael Corner and Terry Boot — Ravenclaws, no less — they allowed themselves to be tortured for hours, days even for their acts of bravery."

"Someday you'll be able to see the forest through the trees."

She sat still, absorbing his words.

After a few moments, Bill continued. "Ginny and Seamus and your other friends've been telling us stories about what you and the others did, helping take care of the other students when they got hurt, keeping their spirits up whenever you felt them lag. And you helped Seamus every time he worried about Dean. You're still alive, you still have your spirit inside of you. That wasn't, nor is it, something they can take away."

"Right. They can't take away my spirit. Just my face."

Bill stopped talking, not sure how he should reply. Lavender sensed his hesitation — and she smiled. A little bit, but enough so he could see. He replied in like manner.

"I should get back home. I'll swing by during lunch next Wednesday. Spend it here with you. Is that all right?"

Somehow, despite her mood earlier, she knew her eyes were glinting at the prospect of his company. "Absolutely it is."

"Great." Bill gave her a wink and stood up. He placed a kiss on her forehead, right on her bandages. He always made sure to touch her on her marred side, whether it be a kiss or a delicate pat. For Lavender, his sweet and gentle gestures never hurt.

"Until then, beautiful."

She pressed her hand to her mouth, her giggle making it shake. "Thanks, Bill."

He smiled and tipped two fingers towards her before he walked out the door. "Anytime.


	2. Recipient: First Year

**Title: **The Better Luck Club

**Author: **?

**Recipient:** FirstYear

**Character/Pairing: **Dawlish, Madam Rosmerta, Crouch Sr, Kingsley

**A/N: **Dear FirstYear, I tried my best to include your suggested characters and themes, and although I've never written the characters before, I hope I've done them at least some justice. Enjoy!

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Lady Luck had been a keen avoider of Auror John Dawlish, Order of Merlin First Class and Personal Protector of the Minister, ever since he could remember. Sitting at the bar of the mostly empty Three Broomsticks, he pondered over what he had done in his life to deserve such a continuous run of misfortune.

True, he had managed to gain impeccable grades in his OWLs and NEWTs as well as the highly coveted rank of the Minister's personal Auror, but his greater achievements were almost out-balanced by the considerable amount of disasters that had occurred by his unintentional hand. Logic defined that it was supposed to be impossible to be in the wrong place at the wrong time in so many consecutive occurrences, but apparently he, John Abraham Dawlish had done it. Smiling bitterly at his reflection in the long mirror hanging horizontally behind the bar, he silently congratulated himself on his unique skill of either causing or partaking in fiascos.

"And how are you today, love?"

Dawlish looked around in momentary bewilderment as the warm voice dispersed his dejected thoughts. His eyes were immediately drawn to the only person in sight and he let himself relax as he watched the pleasing figure of Madam Rosmerta bustle her way along the bar, hands busy cleaning a tankard.

"You're looking mighty miserable, John," she remarked as she came to stand opposite him, her kindly dark eyes flickering over him with friendly concern.

"Hmm. I could do with a Dragontail," Dawlish said with a nonchalant shrug while Rosmerta's dark curls bounced a little as she shook her head in disbelief.

"At this hour? It's only eleven and surely the Minister needs you completely sober."

"Kingsley's with him up at Hogwarts. Fudge said he only needed one of us as he just wants to check with Dumbledore about the games, so I've been given a free shift," Dawlish explained with a dismissive wave of his hand while Rosmerta clucked her tongue and reached down behind the counter to draw up a bottle of a drink Dawlish had become rather familiar with of late.

"I can't believe they're holding them Triwizard Tournaments at last!" Rosmerta exclaimed theatrically. "I never thought they'd have one of those again."

"Mm. The Ministry decided it was time we gave it a go," Dawlish said indifferently as he watched her fetch a glass tumbler.

"Well, you just make sure you get yourself clean before you go and do your duty, deary," she reminded him as she unscrewed the lid and poured him a generous measure of dark liquid. "It wouldn't do to have you making a fool of yourself before the Minister himself."

"It wouldn't be anything new," Dawlish muttered as he took hold of the glass and tipped his head a little towards her in a small toast.

"Well really, John Dawlish. This down-and-out attitude has simply got to change. Nothing good will come of it," Rosmerta chided him as he downed his drink in solemn gulps.

"I've tried everything, Rosa, but nothing ever seems to change my luck. I'm always out of it," Dawlish complained in a flat voice as he leaned his arms on the shiny surface of the bar.

"Luck ain't something that can be called upon like some card," Rosmerta said firmly as she paused in her cleaning work to fix him with a steady eye. "Luck is something you make."

"Make?" Dawlish repeated blankly, feeling a little baffled by the concept of actually manufacturing one's fate and fortune.

"Look over there – no, a bit more slyly than that – can you see him?" Rosmerta said in a low murmur as she gestured to someone sitting in a shadowed corner with her eyes.

"What? Barty Crouch?" Dawlish said in surprise as he turned his head to glance over at the familiarly stern figure of Bartemius Crouch Senior sitting poker straight as he seemed to be impatiently waited for something, an empty glass before him.

"He's been here all morning," Rosmerta disclosed with a shake of her head. "Looks like he thinks himself being watched or something."

"I heard he hasn't been feeling too well lately," Dawlish commented with a grave nod before turning back to the bar mistress with a frown. "But what's Crouch got to do with anything?"

"He's a man who made his luck."

"He doesn't look very lucky right now," Dawlish remarked with a mirthless smile as he glanced at the dark-robed figure through the mirror.

"Poor man," Rosmerta said pityingly. "Can't be easy having to live and be happy with his wife and son gone."

"Hmm. His son was accused of being a Death Eater, wasn't he?" Dawlish said conversationally as he poured himself another glass of burning Dragontail.

"Half the world is accused of being one of those these days," Rosmerta pointed out with a slightly bitter bite in her voice, causing Dawlish to look up in mild surprise.

"Only the suspicious characters," he said slowly as he tried to decipher what might be bothering her. "People like that old dog Malfoy."

"Malfoy? The blond boy?"

"I don't think he can be called a boy," Dawlish said with a slight chuckle while Rosmerta gave him an indignant look as she placed her hands on her hips in a disapproving gesture.

"I've been here long enough to see most of the population as snotty-nosed youngsters, so they're all boys and girls to me," she countered with a slight sniff while Dawlish struggled to imagine Lucius Malfoy as anything other than the untrustworthy conman that he was.

"He was such a polite little thing," Rosmerta interrupted his thoughts as she reached for another glass to clean. "Used to come in here to drag out the more unruly kids in his House before they became too wild. Saved me so much trouble and he always apologised on behalf of the silly nitwits. I could've sworn he would've made a good man."

"Apparently not," Dawlish added with a sullen shrug. "He's as shifty as they come these days. Doesn't help that he's been a Death Eater in the last war."

"Such a shame. It's always the good 'uns that go to the dogs, ain't it?" Rosmerta said somewhat mournfully as the sound of the door of the pub opening and closing made Dawlish turn in his seat out of automatic curiosity. He saw the vivid red hair of the newcomer first and immediately knew who it would be before he had even glanced at the bespectacled, freckled face of Percy Weasley. The young man gave an awkward smile in their direction before hurrying over to Barty Crouch, who had risen at the sound of his personal assistant's first footstep.

"We're needed up at the school, Mr Crouch," Dawlish heard Percy say quickly to his superior while Crouch instantly began striding towards the door.

"Thank you, Weatherby. Madam Rosmerta," Crouch said briskly in farewell as he touched the rim of his black bowler hat before leaving the pub with a flustered Weasley at his heels.

"Another ambitious one, that boy," Rosmerta said with a smile as she waved them off.

"You mean Weasley? He hasn't stopped wiping Crouch's shoes, from what I've heard."

"He's a good boy," the pretty Madam affirmed while Dawlish merely gave an indifferent nod, feeling the drink starting to get to his head. Trying to focus himself, he concentrated hard on the small writing adorning the label of the drink before him even as his mind began to drift. He snapped out of his slight stupor when the bottle he was staring at was snatched up by Rosmerta as she tartly poured him one final glass before putting it away beneath the counter.

"I was drinking that," Dawlish said with a frown, pointing to where the bottle had been.

"You do too much of that, love," Rosmerta reprimanded him wearily. "You're in here so often these days that I worry for you. You don't want to lose your job now, do you?"

"My luck isn't _that_ bad," Dawlish said with a wry smile before taking a small mouthful of the stinging drink that burnt its way down his throat and made him close to breathing out smoke through his nose.

"Well, tell me what's bothering you then. I haven't seen anyone look so down and drink so much at such an early hour since the Perrigan scandal – you remember that? – the young daughter ran off with that boy from Durmstrang. Caused a right hullabaloo in these parts."

"I remember being sent after the boy because they thought he might've kidnapped the girl against her will, and arriving at Durmstrang only to be Stunned by him. Great success, I was," Dawlish said somewhat sourly while Rosmerta gave him a sympathetic look.

"It happens to the best of us, love. Don't take it too hard."

"Considering I'm supposed to be one of the most important Aurors in Britain, I don't think it can be taken lightly," Dawlish said with a snort of bitter amusement.

"Look here, John," Rosmerta began firmly, "You see Mrs Gaston over there? She lost her son recently when he was killed while working as an Auror out in Hungary. She might be looking copper right now, but she'll get over it. She's never backed down yet."

John glanced over his shoulder at the black-robed witch sitting at a table in one corner, her silvery hair tied back neatly under a black veil of mourning. He turned back to Rosmerta when she continued speaking.

"And old Keensley over there; he lost his job as a Ministry worker some years ago after he was involved in some accident, but he's stopped moaning after I talked to him about it. You ain't the only one with troubles, John deary. You've just got to let it go and think of better luck."

Dawlish looked around at the few patrons haunting the pub on the quiet Thursday afternoon and wondered if he really wasn't the only one who had run into a wall of misfortune. He had always thought his troubles had started ever since his becoming an orphan at the age of six, but maybe he truly had been too busy moping to notice anything else. He had never possessed a particularly cheery character, and Dawlish doubted if he ever would. Still, he was aware that melancholy could be diffused when there was enough effort behind the intention, but recently, he had lost all sense of determination. Moving from one catastrophe to the next had left him a little bit more broken every time, never allowing him to heal his pride before another blow would fall.

Perhaps his story would have been different, had he had someone in his life to talk to, to confide in. As it was, he was a lonely bachelor with a distinct lack of friends, a situation that had always baffled him. Dawlish had developed an awareness of himself early on in his youth, but no matter how hard he looked at himself, he couldn't find what was so unappealing about him that he might have no close friends. Oh, there were his fellow Aurors who he occasionally went for drinks with, but there was no one he could call a true friend; no one who could understand him. Well, maybe except for Kingsley. Kingsley always seemed to have a calming air about him that had allowed Dawlish to get on with him without a single quiver of discomfort. Whenever he felt extremely down, he would instinctively turn to his Auror partner for support, and Kingsley had always been more than generous with his steady listening and few words of solace that had easily bested any sympathetic rambling from the finest agony aunt.

Gazing pensively at the other customers, Dawlish silently marvelled at how they all seemed to be united by their private quandaries. They seemed to be drawn together by their mixed plights, and he imagined it was that sense of unity that was making them all the more strong and stirring their fighting spirit. Even as he pondered the idea, he felt his own troubles to be fading somewhat at the thought of his shared burden…

"You seem to have quite a motley collection of mourners here," Dawlish said ruefully to Rosmerta as he finished off his third glass.

"Aye, that I have," Rosmerta confirmed with a smile. "But I make sure it don't last long. There's always the more miserable-looking ones in here like that Professor Snape, but even he's never complained or taken more than a glass of Firewhisky. It makes me right sad to see so many broken hearts and I can't help lending a hand to make it all better. Maybe you should try talking to some of them, John."

"Maybe," Dawlish said noncommittally at her suggestion, heaving a long sigh as the door of the pub swung open yet again.

"Oh look! It's Kingsley," Rosmerta told him brightly before turning her attention to the tall, dark Auror to greet him warmly.

"The Minister wishes for you, John," the deep, calming voice of Kinsley said from behind him as Dawlish was casting a Sobering spell upon himself and gathering up his senses.

"Right. Thanks, Rosa. You're too good to me," Dawlish said as he pulled out a few coins from his trouser pocket and slid it across the counter before slipping off the barstool to straighten up his robes.

"Take care of yourself, love, and don't let me see you in here until you've made your luck!" Madam Rosmerta said in warm-hearted farewell while Dawlish gave a vague wave of his hand as he headed for the door with Kingsley beside him. Pushing the door open, he stepped out into the cold freshness of winter, feeling the sharpness of the air momentarily take his breath away and purge him of his gloomy mood. He stopped to square his shoulders and adjust himself to the outer world, realising that perhaps he hadn't been blessed so far, but at least there was something he could do about it.

After all, destiny was a manmade thing.


	3. Recipient: Duco Lacuna

**Title: **Unconventional

**Author:**

**Recipient: **Duco Lacuna

**Characters/Pairings: **Scorpius/Rose

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"Al, I'm going to need your help here, mate."

Scorpius Malfoy was in a bind. He'd been dating my cousin Rose since fourth year, which was ten years ago by that point. They had what Rose called an 'open relationship,' which meant they lived together, had no plans on marriage, but were free to go home with other people as they wished, with no guilt and no explanations necessary. What it meant in practice was that Rose got to sleep with whoever was willing, and Scorpius got to wonder why he wasn't good enough for her. They'd started living together less than a year after Hogwarts, and Scorpius had been stoically allowing Rose this liberty ever since. And then, at least four or five times a year, he'd fling himself onto my couch, declare this was 'the last time,' and then go crawling back to her the following afternoon.

In order to understand how this came to be, one should probably know a bit about Rose and Scorpius. Rose was an odd sort, by Weasley standards (probably why she was my favourite cousin, after all). Uncle Ron put much of her behaviour down to "too much of her mum's influence," which is what he muttered every time she came home with a new piece of metal in a less-than-conventional place on her body (and she never would say where some of them went), a new hair colour, or a new cause. She was regarded as 'a bit of a free spirit' by Grandma Molly, looked at rather askance by Uncle Percy and Aunt Audrey, and generally brought a good bit of conversation around her doings at family gatherings. Aunt Hermione was simultaneously thrilled that a daughter of hers was so involved in politics (Rose was rather a beacon of the Witches' Movement), and tacitly disappointed that she didn't seem to be anywhere near settling down, long after most witches have gotten married and produced a sprog or two.

But Rosie had her scene. She and a few Muggle-born classmates had thrown themselves headlong into the protests in Muggle London over Britain's role in the African diamond wars that started in '28. As the others wound down their involvement, Rosie ramped hers up, getting herself arrested at least a dozen times, and using her familial influence to bring to light the level to which the Ministry itself was in bed with DeBeers and their mercenary army. She sported what was certainly the first set of electric pink dreadlocks ever seen on a witness in the Wizengamot, and I was dead proud of her. But it was after the wars that things got strange with her. Don't get me wrong, I think it's brilliant that she's helped bring about a nascent Witches' movement in Wizarding Britain – Merlin knows we're only fifty years behind the Muggles there. But that's when she started feeling her oats, as they say, and she really didn't do right by Scorpius at all. If he asked whether she'd be home at night, she said she was being "stifled by his controlling nature." And in negotiating the terms of their open relationship, she denounced all other heterosexual arrangements as "patriarchal tyranny," and not fit for 21st Century wizards and wizards such as they.

Which was in no way fair to her biggest fan: Scorpius Malfoy. He coaxed Rose through O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s with a mixture of cheerleading, romance and discipline. He stayed up with her all night learning papier-mâché spells to coat giant puppet skeletons for her political groups' rallies. He beamed with pride as she gave her groundbreaking testimony of the horrors inflicted by DeBeers using Ministry funds, and threw a muggle-safe celebration for 50 of their friends when Britain finally divested. He read her books, believed in her causes, and wanted nothing but Rose's highest happiness, because he'd been with her as she grew into the woman she became, and was therefore the person best able to "get" her. Truth be told, I admired the hell out of him. And that's why I was going to help him in any way I could. When he'd shown up to my flat that evening, I could tell there was something different about him. Maybe he actually had had quite enough this time. There was that quiet determination in his demeanour that was the hallmark of a Slytherin deep in thought, hatching a plan. So it was no surprise at all when he continued with

"I need to get laid."

"Right. Well, I'm flattered, Scor, really I am, but I'm kind of seeing someone at present, and I –"

"You are not, you sodding poufter. And I'm serious. I need a bird. A witch. One with a rack that would curl the straw on your broomstick. "

"Did you and Rosie have a falling out or something, mate?"

"No, but she's out again tonight with her 'Rubifruit Discovery' girls, and I've had it. Who do you know that's looking for a good shag?" I looked at him sideways, this kind of talk wasn't quite like him. "Okay, a mediocre shag, I don't care. She has to be fit, top-heavy, a witch, and someone who doesn't like girls herself – don't want the little woman stealing her away."

"Well, that rules out any of Lily's teammates on the Harpies, if what she says about them is true. Rules out Lily too, for that matter. Why do you need her to be so well endowed?"

"Are you serious, man? You've seen your cousin – I've gotten used to a nice set of –"

"Far too much information there, Scor. Tits it is, then. Have you ever met...?"

The next two hours were spent developing a list of potential dates for Scorpius. Woman after woman was suggested and summarily dismissed, for various reasons. Neville and Hannah's daughter Jessica was much too close to Rosie, which I understood completely. Jessica's cousin Samantha was too close to Jessica, and "you know how they'll talk." We'd gotten through a good two-dozen women who were either too short, too politically conservative, had fathers in too high political places (wouldn't want them to think about marriage, after all), or somehow or other just not right. I'd begun to doubt that Scorpius was really interested in getting a date at all, when he suggested we might just go out and see who was at the Leaky on a Saturday night. Which is when I knew a) he had no desire to find a Ms. Right Now, and b) he had been in a relationship much too long – what self-respecting single person went to the Leaky Cauldron on a Saturday night?

Turns out her name was Cara. Cara Garibaldi, to be precise. She was an attaché to Wizarding Italy's Ministry for Foreign Affairs (which has an Italian name that I really can't be arsed to remember at present), and had just arrived in London on a three month assignment shadowing the Italian consul. A metre seventy tall if she was an inch, with auburn hair and legs that seemed to go up to her neck, especially when she was wearing those pumps and that pencil skirt. She was standing at the bar, making small-talk with the bartender (Hannah hadn't been involved in the day to day running of the pub in years by that point) when we walked in. I thought I'd have to pick Scorpius's jaw up off of the floor when he got a look at her profile. Turns out that being able to stretch out a pullover is a trait shared by most women of Italian heritage. Who knew?

"Scorpius, mate, show a bit of dignity, will you?"

"Right. Yes. Merlin's Beard though, man. Have you seen those – "

"Let's just sit you down, Casanova. You might hurt something there. Shall we order?" I motioned for the bartender and ordered two flagons of firewhiskey by holding up two fingers and pantomiming steam coming from my ears. He nodded his head and began to decant the liquor into the large mugs. When the drinks arrived, I reckoned it was time for Scorpius to fly or get off the broomstick.

"Excuse me, sir," I asked, layering on the Weasley charm, "the young lady at the bar, what is she drinking?"

"Albus!" Scorpius hissed. "You can't! I mean, Godric man, isn't that a bit forward?"

"Hush," I dismissed my old school chum. "Sir?" I turned back to the barkeep.

"Right. She's been nursing a goblet o' the Elven mead like it was her mum's tit. Poor bird's been in here near forty-five minutes now, still on that same one. Has to have gone cold by now." I pulled a stack of ten Galleons from my purse and placed it in the man's hand.

"Cover the lady's bar tab if you would, my good man. Her drinks are on us," I proclaimed, chest puffed out. The older man chuckled, while Scorpius looked as though he was going to soil himself trying to maintain a calm demeanour.

"Ye have an eye for the ginger do ye, Mister Potter? Jus' like yer dad, eh? Madame Longbottom told me te watch out f'yer type. But begging your pardon, sir. If you're trying to catch the girl's attention, ye might want t' be a bit more – what's the word? Ah. – Subtle about it. Why don't ye buy the lass a drink instead?" Now it was my turn to chuckle.

"Of course, sir. Thank you for the suggestion. Oh, and sir?"

"Aye?"

"Please don't mention my mum again while I'm trying to pull a bird in a pub. Throws me a bit off my game, it does." The barkeep laughed heartily as he walked away. Scorpius tried to slide underneath the table.

"Albus, are you completely mental? What are you doing?"

"She's fit, isn't she?"

"Yes, but – "

"Would you like a chance with her?"

"Well sure, but – "

"Then shut your fool gob and let me help you, mate. She's not just going to waltz over here by herself, you know. It's going to take some planning. Subtle, precise, excruciatingly – Oh, hello." I nudged Scorpius, and the two of us rose out of our seats as Cara approached.

"Ciao, gente. I am Cara. You are the gents that are buying for me the mead?"

"Yes. Yes, that was us," I answered. My name is Albus Potter, and this is – "

"_Ciao, bella. Sono Scorpius; Scorpius Malfoy. Molto incanto lieto d'incontrarmi con cosa bella signora_," Scorpius broke in. Or something like that. I was too busy doing my best impression of a carp to do a post-facto translation of a language I don't speak. Meanwhile Scorpius is kissing the back of Cara's hand and pulling a chair out for her as if he'd been doing this his whole life.

"Where in Salazar's name did you learn to speak Italian, Scor?" I whispered, as we sat down.

"Practically grew up with the Zabini-Carmichaels, mate." Scorpius shrugged. "Blaise and my dad were best mates through school, after all. And their boy Teo's a good bloke. We'd all go on holiday to their villas together, see, and one simply can't properly do summers in Tuscany and winters in the Alps without knowing a bit of the language, can one? But we have a guest with us, Albus. Cara, to what do we owe the honour of such a beautiful flower of _Italia_ appearing on our shores?"

Cara, in her charmingly broken English, proceeded to tell us how she'd been in London for three days, and precisely what she was doing for her Ministry. Scorpius would jump in occasionally to assist her with her English, and he also regaled us with stories of his summers in Tuscany – certainly more than a bit embellished with the romance of the place – and after about an hour (and several more flagons of firewhiskey), they figured out that they had spent their summers within about 10 miles of each other. So, the next several hours were spent reminiscing over vineyards and sunsets, farms and markets, all in a haze of olive oil and garlic-scented nostalgia and wonder. At least that's how I imagine it went. By the time they'd made the connection, I excused myself to head back to my flat, barely noticed. Scorpius didn't return that night, nor did I expect him too. I wound up drinking myself to sleep listening to the wireless. Ah, the bachelor life.

The following morning I was nursing a wicked hangover, when I was woken by a singularly unexpected visitor.

"Oi! Outta bed, you lazy sod. Where is he, then? He's not at home, and he's not on your sofa. Did he pay his mum a visit?"

"Right. What time is it, Rose?"

"Half past Merlin's hairy arse. Now where's Scor?"

"Bloody hell, woman. It's not yet ten o' clock on a Saturday. Go back to your own flat. Or make yourself useful and put on a kettle." Surprisingly enough, she did put a kettle on for the two of us, and my headache was somewhat mollified by the caffeine.

"Right. You've had your tea, now where is he?" I took a deep breath. I could tell this wasn't going to be a pleasant conversation.

"Don't know exactly, Rose. But I have a guess. We went out last night, to the Leaky of all places. He met this girl there, you see, and –"

"About bloody time."

"Really now , Rosie, you've done your share of extracurricular – come again?"

"I said it's about bloody time. Berk's so attached to me that I've feared he's going to propose one of these days. I mean I love him madly, but honestly! He needs a life of his own, you know."

"Right." I was a bit taken aback, but not wholly so. I'd known Rose too long to really be surprised by her at that point.

"So, what's she look like? Is she fit?"

"Red hair, nice rack, legs that don't quit." Rose rolled her eyes and chuckled.

"Never fails to amaze me how men can reduce a human being to a collection of assembled body parts. Still, good to see that he has such a good eye for classical beauty. Think he'd share?" It took all the concentration I could muster to swallow my mouthful of tea when she asked that.

"If you allow me to take pictures, I'll split the proceeds with you."

Rose nearly fell over laughing. "Right. I'm sure my doing a porno photo shoot is precisely what the Witches' movement needs."

We talked for a bit longer, catching up on her work in the Ministry and my never-ending dissertation. She stayed for lunch, and greeted Scorpius (who came in just as we were sitting down to sandwiches) with an embrace worthy of her surname.

"So, had a good time, did you? With the ginger girl, I mean?" she asked, once Scorpius had had a chance to sit down and get a bite. He was barely fazed, although I think I did catch a bit of disappointment in his voice.

"Oh, right. Sure did. We talked 'till twelve or so, then went up to her place in Diagon Alley. Ministry's putting her up while she's in the country."

"In the country?" Rose asked. "Foreign girl, then?"

"Italian."

Rose smiled wickedly. "Ooh. Always heard those were the best lovers. Think she'll share?"

"Ha!" Scorpius pointed at me. "What did I tell you? Pay up, man. That was the first question out of her mouth."

"Pay up?" I asked. "Since when did we have a bet?"

"I told you that would be the first question she'd ask – if she could have some, too. There it is. Five Galleons, mate," he said, pointing to his outstretched palm.

"In all fairness, Scorpius, I actually asked Al if she was fit before I asked him if she'd share. So that was my second question." Rose winked at me conspiratorially as Scorpius's face fell.

"Oh, well. You know, I think you're right; I'm not sure there was a bet. Still, she's not going to share, love. But she was intrigued when I told her about this arrangement of ours. Called it very French, for some reason." Rose got a faraway look in her eyes.

"Really? What else did she say?" Right. I knew that particular look, and it had nothing to do with anything I wanted them to be doing in my flat. Especially when she matched it with that breathy tone.

"Right. I still feel like a hippogriff did the mambo on my skull all night. You two get going – I'm headed back to bed." I'm not sure I was even finished with that sentence before they were gone. But it was hardly the last lunch I'd share with them over the next few weeks.

Rose hatched a plan to lure Cara into bed with them that exploded on her rather comically. That required two pots of tea, three salmon-cucumber sandwiches and a split flagon of firewhiskey to get her over it. Cara was introduced to Draco and Asteria at a party at the Zabini's, which cost me an evening and four flagons of firewhiskey. Hogwarts unleashes a new crop of leaving Seventh Years onto Wizarding society, and Rose finds her dance card very full of young Hufflepuff alumnae. This costs me three separate Saturday afternoons, two boxes of chocolates, six flagons of firewhiskey and a drunk Malfoy on my couch.

I wasn't aware how bad things had gotten until Rose appeared in my Muggle university's library one Sunday morning.

"Albus, help." she whispered. Then she swore "Oh, sod it anyway," and cast a privacy charm around us.

"Rose, these are Muggles here. You can't just go about waving your wand like you're in Hogsmeade. What's gotten into you?"

"Then I'll fucking _Obliviate_ them myself, Al. But I need your help. I don't know what to do."

"What to do about what?"

"Cara. I hate that bitch. But he won't let her go – it's like she's a second girlfriend for him or something."

"Sure, but isn't that what you wanted – an open relationship?"

"Yes, of course, but this isn't really what I had in mind." I couldn't help it. I know I'm supposed to be the empathetic, understanding one of us, but I just had to laugh, which Rose didn't like so much at all.

"That's just not fair," she complained. "He's still corresponding with her! She's been back in Italy for three weeks now, and we're still getting owls sent from the continent. I'm in a bind here, love, and you simply must help me." And she was right. It wasn't fair. Not fair at all. I looked at her pointedly for a moment, deciding how I was going to break this to her.

"Rose, do you love him?" I asked.

"Well, yes. Of course. We've been together now ten-"

"No, Rose. Do you really love him? Do you miss him while he's at work, do you smile just because he's happy, does Celestina Warbeck make sense to you when he's around? Do you really love him?" She thought about this a moment before replying.

"Yes, Albus. Yes. I suppose I really do love him."

"Then why won't you just be with him?"

"What do you mean? I'm – We're – "

"No you're not. You're playing this game, trying to justify your edginess while denying yourself and him a true shot at happiness. Scorpius worships the ground you walk on, Rose. He can't stand this arrangement you two have. He only agreed to it because he knew it would be the only way he got to be with you. There aren't terribly many wizards who would do this – I certainly wouldn't. You have one of the good ones there, love. He deserves better."

"You're right, of course. It was probably awfully selfish of me to force this on him like that." Rose took a deep breath before continuing. "But I just don't know if I can have the kind of conventional relationship he's looking for."

"Why not?"

"It's just... It's not really me, you see. It's not who I am."

"Rose," I said to her finally, "you really have to make a decision. You're going to have to decide if it's more important for you to be cool or to be happy. I love you like a sister, and I'll support you either way. But Scorpius is my best mate, and this is really hurting him. And if I'm honest, it's hurting me to watch you two go around like this. I need to get back to the studying, love, but think about this. Think about Scorpius, and what having him in your life means to you. And think honestly about how important this image you've created for yourself is. It may be that image is more important to you right now; and that's fine. You owe it to Scorpius to level with him, then. Do whatever's right for you; just be honest about it." Rose nodded her head mutely, kissed my cheek and walked out, leaving me to my studies.

It was the following Wednesday that I heard from her next. Her owl dropped a very simple note off at my flat that read:

_"Albus,_

_"Thank you for talking me down on Sunday. When did my cousin get so wise? I've made up my mind, but I'm going to need your help. Make sure you get Scorpius over to the Leaky on Saturday night between 8 and 9._

_ Love and Solidarity, Rose."_

And, sure as rain, come Saturday night I have one cheesed-off Malfoy pacing in my living room, muttering about "last straws," and how he didn't care if she _ever_ came home this time. I did my part for whatever Rose had in mind for the poor boy though, and made sure that we chose the Leaky for that evening's debauch.

We walked in to the pub, where Hannah herself was working; my first indication that Rose had done some planning. The good publican sat us down along with a bottle of Odgen's finest, two stout mugs and a pre-emptive reproof that "I changed your nappies, Al. I'm not going to take your money, so you can just go ahead and put that purse away." We were a good ten minutes into our mugs when Hannah came by to top them off.

"Bird in the blue dress over there's been eyeing you two since you walked in, you know."

I had an idea what was going on, but for Rose's sake I let Scorpius catch on in his own time. You couldn't really see her, as there was a support pillar between our table and where she was standing, but we could certainly make out a royal blue dress cut rather scandalously high above the knee, and more than a bit of leg to go with it, heading down to a pair of shiny red pumps. I nearly shot her a Patronus informing her that Scorpius isn't exactly a leg man, but looking over, I noticed that his interest was more than piqued by my cousin's display. He took five Galleons from his purse, placed them in Hannah's hand, and asked her to "set the young lady up with whatever she's having". Hannah smiled and walked back to the bar to do just that.

The legs which had so successfully monopolized my friend's attention slowly slid their way out from behind the support pillar, and I watched as Scorpius's mouth dropped open as his girlfriend strutted straight towards him; with her hips swaying and her eyes fixed on his.

"Rose!" Scorpius exclaimed, fairly jumping out of his chair once he got his wits about him.

"Sssh," she replied, placing a finger on his lips. "Let me say something, love." Rose sat Scorpius down, and took a seat at our table next to him. "This arrangement we've had has been just dreadful for both of us. I think we need to make some changes to the ground rules. Is that (all right) alright with you?" Scorpius looked a bit perplexed.

"I suppose," he answered warily. "What did you have in mind?"

"First," Rose replied, "this open relationship isn't working, and that has to end now. Agreed?"

"Of course. I was never too terribly keen on that, but you've probably figured that out."

"Excellent. That's settled, then. There's one more change to our relationship I'd like to make, Scorpius."

"Yes? What's that?" Rose grabbed both of Scorpius's hands tightly, and looked deeply into his eyes.

"I think I should very much like to marry you."

"You think you should – Rose Weasley, did you just ask me to marry you?" Scorpius looked rather taken aback by this.

"Why yes," Rose answered. "Yes I did. Scorpius Malfoy, would you do me the honour of – wait, should I get on one knee to do this? There are so bloody few guidelines out there on how to ask your bloke to marry you." Scorpius got up laughing, and pulled Rose to her feet, and into an embrace.

"Yes. Yes of course I will," he said between chuckles. "Couldn't have imagined it happening any other way."


	4. Recipient: Cuban Sombrero Gal

**Title: **Dust Underfoot

**Author: **?

**Recipient: **Cuban Sombrero Gal

**Character/Pairing: **Sirius Black, Marlene McKinnon, Marauders+Lily

* * *

Something inside Marlene twinges in a strange, faded facsimile of pain, too distant and abstract to truly _hurt. _She explores the feeling, detachedly curious, as she studies the uncomfortable, fidgety set of Sirius' shoulders where he's seated across from her. His friends sit in one of the better lit booths in the pub and he is looking for a way out so they won't see her, won't see him, won't see anything that could put _him_ and _her_ together to make a _them_. Marlene McKinnon is nothing to be proud of.

And she _knows_ that. She's nothing to parade around with, nothing to bring home to your family (and that is Sirius', sitting there laughing in the golden light) and on any other day she'd be entirely proud of it. She's well aware of the uncomfortable silence that she brings with her, the venom haze that seeps out of her robes like the stale cigarette smoke to kill the conversations before she's even close enough to hear them.

They're laughing together, just a few feet from where she sits with Sirius and a world away, as well. She's watching them, and she can feel Black getting nervous across from her, like she's the sort of girl that's going to turn back to him and say 'oh, look, your friends! Aren't you going to introduce me?' She swishes her drink in her hand, almost wishing she took her Firewhisky on the rocks for the added drama of clinking ice as she contemplates the four at the table, at the empty chair somehow left open for the man sitting across from her. That's the kind of accident that speaks to real friendship; there's a space for him even when he isn't there, and it's given without a thought.

In the whole wide world, there's not one chair saved for her. The thought comes upon her and it's a good thing Firewhisky doesn't freeze; she's got enough of that in her veins to keep the blood flowing and her pause is even less than fleeting.

The moment settles into a strange little vacancy in her chest. She writes it off and leaves him to it, throwing back the dregs of her drink before she goes. _Fuck you, _she thinks vaguely, sliding out of her seat and striding out the front door, meandering through the tables in the most obvious way possible, poisoning the room. The conversations die as she threads through, and Sirius' friends stop laughing as she saunters down her runway; Marlene McKinnon has always known how to steal a room. She meant for that; she won't sneak out like a secret, Sirius Black doesn't get her for free.

"Later?" he calls after her, trying to speak quietly. She shrugs her shoulders and doesn't deign to turn her head back to him.

"Whenever, Sirius." He can't stand her nonchalance, can't _stand_ that if he doesn't find her, she'll find another. She won't simper and pout, she won't _wait_. Sirius Black is a star, accustomed to girls hustling each other for the best vantage, to smile under the limelight of his attentions whenever he condescends to bestow them. Things have always come so easily to him, but Marlene never, ever will—he hates and loves her for that. Marlene McKinnon is a black hole, and Sirius' starlight is all rather lost on her.

It's too nice a pub for her, anyway. Too many lights, too much shining wood and rich dark leather, clean glasses and laughter, and the barkeep had started serving a look of paternal disapproval along with the alcohol around the fifth round of Firewhisky. Sirius goes to join his friends, to take that chair and complete the table; it's their sort of place. He'll probably explain her presence away as Order business, but it doesn't really matter; they'll ask and he'll have to answer and she'll still exist.

Marlene fucks off the The Fox and Fey; it's stumbling distance from her flat and most certainly _her _sort of place; dark and seedy, cloudy pints and chipped wineglasses, scarred countertops and mismatched, badly-mended furniture that's seen more than a few shady brawls. Not a place for friends; the patrons here generally come alone.

The dirty, jaundiced light is kinder on her ashy skin, and the witch behind the bar is the sort too busy avoiding any reflections of her roughened, fading beauty in the poorly polished surfaces around her to spare any thought for Marlene and the empty glasses she's lining up along the bar. Apathy and disinterest colors the pub in dirty greys and browns, and Marlene sculls the warm amber liquid until the colors blur together and the chair underneath her is as good as any other.

Hours later, Sirius saunters in like he belongs. Maybe he believes he does, and Marlene half-grins at his arrogance—he'll disavow the Blacks with every breath, but all he has to do is turn his head, take a step, level a gaze, and his Black blood screams out louder than any words he could ever speak. He thinks he belongs here, walks in as though he's been born to this pit, but he does not; he has someone to walk out to, a space saved, someone to sit and laugh with in a pub so unlike this one. That is a luxury no one in here is privy to; Sirius struts in and it is a _choice_.

The pub goes very quietly uneasy at his entrance—he's got that brash, brazen undercurrent of an Auror or an Enforcer beneath the leather jacket and heavy boots, and the denizens of the Fox are far enough along towards the blacker side of the spectrum to distrust that. He doesn't notice the frisson of cool wariness that weaves through the room; no one who belongs here could ever miss it.

She thinks about stringing Sirius along a little while, sticking to the craggy, thirty-something Scouser who's been buying her drinks just to grind him a little, but the alcohol has dampened some of her spite, and she decides to save them both the trouble, and her benefactor a trip to St. Mungo's. He calls her a worthless slag as she abandons him, mourning all of his hard-earned Galleons that have gone for nothing, but that's hardly the worst thing she's ever been called. It's not the worst thing she's ever _deserved_ to be called.

The street outside glitters with the tiny sparkles of a hundred thousand glass bottles ground to dust underfoot. Marlene admires them as she climbs on the motorbike behind Sirius, the little bits of broken beauty sprinkled in the filth of the Liverpool gutter. They are sharp in the blur of her vision when nothing else is. They're really nothing; the last remnants of unremarkable bottles of lager and liquor—they wouldn't be beautiful but for their surroundings, the filth and dirt of a gutter made to glitter.

Sirius smiles at her cheekily over his shoulder, and she can almost feel the swell of arrogant triumph rising up in his chest as she wraps her arms around him—like she's some prize he's won. What a prize, indeed—beautiful enough, just like those sparkles in the gutter, and just as sharp, broken, and ultimately worthless.

With the sticky slick leather of his jacket warm under Marlene's cheek, she realizes with the honest clarity of intoxication that Sirius is not like those broken bottles at all, not something made beautiful by the contrast like those pretty little sparks under her feet; _not like her at all_. He is beautiful all on his own. He crushes crystal to glitter in the dark, ruins beauty to be _this_, leaves behind his golden friends, leaves their circle incomplete and comes into the dark places he does not belong. It seems rather tragic, that he will never see how golden he truly is, will never see himself as anything but Black.

If she were less selfish, she might regret that. But she just holds on for the ride, enjoys the night, and, three days later, does it all again. She thinks of that empty chair sitting open somewhere and knows she should feel sorry, but she won't step around what Sirius has already ground underfoot.


	5. Recipient: Elledreamer

**Title:** The Hour of Our Death

**Author:** ?

**Recipient:** Elledreamer

**Character/Pairing:** Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger

**Author's note: **It is only fair to note that this story is liberally studded with references to my other HP writings. However, it is also fair to note that this won't help you much in identifying me, since most of these writings don't exist on the Internet at the moment. Stuart Almsdeeds appears in a drabble that I've deleted, as well as a couple stories that I haven't written yet; the Abbott/Wilkinson business comes from a story that I have written, but am saving for what I hope will be the next Lounge collaboration; and the whole subplot involving Hermione as a witness to the Resurrection will appear in the sixteenth installment of a multi-fandom series of which two installments are currently written. (Now, that said, there is one word in this story that, if you type it into Google, will lead you directly back to one of my more prominent HP stories - but good luck finding it among the almost 10,000 other words.)

* * *

"Bit of a contrast, isn't it?" said Ron Weasley, as he opened the gate of Taigh Neasail, the small newlyweds' cottage in Strathclyde that Bill had found for him and Hermione, and stepped out onto the cobblestone path. "Just pick up a cocktail glass lying on the sand, and you go from sun-kissed tropical shores to fog-covered Scottish hills in about two seconds."

"And not a moment too soon, either," said Hermione Weasley, _née_ Granger, slipping in behind him and shutting the gate again. "After a fortnight of Caribbean-in-August temperatures, I don't care if I never see the sun again."

"I thought you said you'd always wanted to go to Jamaica for your honeymoon," Ron defended himself.

"I did," said Hermione. "I also said that I wanted to get married in December."

"Hermione," said Ron patiently, "if we'd done that, Mum would never have shown her face at the church. You know the old rhyme: 'Snow on a Muggle-born/pure-blood match...'"

"'...the crops won't grow and the chicks won't hatch,'" Hermione finished. "Yes, Ron, I know. I've heard all of your mother's wizarding-wedding superstitions. And I suppose it's no use pointing out that we aren't planning on having a farm..."

"It's metaphorical," said Ron. "It just means they'll have bad luck all their lives. Now, you wouldn't want that to happen to us, would you?"

"Ron…" Hermione began wearily.

"I knew you'd understand," said Ron. "Now, then, let's see what the owls left us while we were gone." They had reached the doorstep of the cottage; he bent and picked up the pile of mail sitting in front of the door, and began thumbing through it rapidly. "Junk – junk – something from Harry and Ginny, feels like a card – junk – a letter from your parents – junk – a parcel from George (better not open that until you've gone over it with your wand) – and..." His face darkened as he pulled out the last piece of mail. "Well, that's an ominous thing to come home to."

"What?" said Hermione.

Ron handed her the parchment wordlessly. It was made of the finest bleached lambskin, and sealed in red wax with the unmistakable seal of the Ministry of Magic. Hermione frowned, slipped a finger under the wax, and peeled it open.

"_Mr and Mrs Weasley,_" she read aloud, "_your assistance is requested in a legal matter of some delicacy. Please present yourselves in my office at 6:30 p.m. on 26 August so that we may discuss the matter thoroughly. Cordially, Pius Thicknesse._"

Ron groaned. "We should have stayed in Jamaica," he said.

"'A legal matter of some delicacy'?" Hermione said. "What do you suppose that means?"

Ron shrugged. "Could be anything," he said. "Maybe Dad's been sacked; maybe George has gotten himself arrested; maybe they've dug up some obscure treaty under which you've been legally married to Draco Malfoy since you were three. Whatever it is, it can't be good, or Thicknesse wouldn't have been so coy about describing it."

Hermione sighed. "You don't waste any time finding the grim side of things, do you, Ron?" she said.

"My dad's a Ministry official, Hermione," said Ron. "I know how these things work."

Hermione rolled her eyes, and glanced at her watch. "Well, anyway," she said, "it was noon when we left Kingston, and England is –" she stopped to think "– six hours ahead of Jamaica, so we should just have time to change and put our things away – and then, I suppose, we'd better drop in on the Ministry and see what the Honourable Mr Thicknesse wants of us."

Minister of Magic Pius Thicknesse rose from his seat and bowed as the two sun-tanned figures stepped out of his office fireplace. "Good evening, Mr Weasley, Mrs Weasley," he said. "I trust you enjoyed your honeymoon?"

"Yes, thank you, sir," said Ron politely. He and Hermione had scarcely expected, after all they had heard of Voldemort's puppet Minister during the dark period of late 1997, to have any particular respect for Pius Thicknesse, but, after Ernest Yaxley had been captured and the Imperius Curse he had placed on Thicknesse lifted, the former pawn of the Dark Lord had proved to possess quite astonishing reserves of boldness and rectitude. In his first twenty-four hours as a free wizard, he had reversed every measure he had enacted in his first six months, sent Dolores Umbridge and most of the rest of the Ministry packing, and made it the top priority of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to locate and apprehend any Death Eater who might have escaped the Battle of Hogwarts. He had also thrown his support behind the program of Stuart Almsdeeds, the new Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts, to educate the wizarding population of Britain about the worthier aspects of Muggle culture, and he had revived the long-lapsed tradition under which the Minister of Magic was known to the reigning monarch as well as to the sitting Prime Minister. (The _Daily Prophet_ had run a front-page story on his meeting with Queen Elizabeth, claiming – with some justification – that Her Majesty had betrayed more emotion at seeing Thicknesse materialise in Windsor Castle's drawing room than she had in all the rest of her forty-six-year reign put together.)

Of course, neither Ron nor Hermione – nor, they suspected, Thicknesse himself – knew just how much of Thicknesse's policy was based on genuine conviction. A good deal of it was likely simple revenge against Voldemort for enslaving him; a good deal more was probably admiration for Almsdeeds, who was slowly but surely turning his now-mandatory class into the closest thing Hogwarts had ever had to a fully integrated humanities department. But whatever his motivations, the Minister was on the right side – and was doing wizarding Britain more solid good than any of his predecessors had done it in decades – so Ron, at any rate, thought that he had earned some measure of respect.

"Yes, it was all right," he said. "Of course, Hermione here wasted a lot of time griping about the heat, but..."

"_Ron!_" said Hermione, blushing furiously beneath her tan.

Thicknesse chuckled. "My wife was the same way during our honeymoon," he said. "For some reason she didn't think that the flobberworm caves of Venezuela was the most romantic location I could have selected."

Ron grinned. "Women," he said. "What can you say?"

"I can leave, you know," said Hermione.

"Now, now, Mrs Weasley," said Thicknesse, waving his hand airily. "Let your poor husband have his fun. Give yourself twenty-three years, and you'll have him so thoroughly under your control that he won't even be able to think anything untoward without your approval. I speak from personal experience."

"Really?" said Ron. "I thought it was Yaxley who did that to you."

"It was, officially," said Thicknesse. "But if I ever find that Euphrosyne was sending him tips on procedure, I won't be surprised."

He sighed. "Though, really, I suppose I shouldn't be complaining," he said. "At least I've had those twenty-three years of marriage. That's more than the Goldsteins can say."

"The who?" said Hermione.

Thicknesse blinked. "You mean the Jamaican newspapers haven't been covering the Goldstein story?" he said. "They must be the only ones. I've seen distorted accounts of the affair in everything from _Mahou shimbun_ to Section 16 of the _New York Times_."

"Oh, the Jamaican papers might have talked about it, too," said Ron. "That doesn't mean we'd notice. When you and Mrs Thicknesse were touring those Venezuelan flobberworm caves, did you spend a lot of time reading newspapers?"

Thicknesse chuckled. "Touché, Mr Weasley," he said. "Still, I'm a little surprised that you didn't at least recognise the name Goldstein. Quite an illustrious family, after all – and, if I'm not mistaken, both of the newlyweds were former members of your D.A."

Ron shrugged. "Well, you know, lots of people were in the D.A.," he said. "I never really learned all their names..."

"Wait a moment," said Hermione. "Goldstein that wouldn't be Anthony Goldstein, would it?"

"The same," said Thicknesse.

"You know him?" said Ron, turning to his wife with a frown.

"Of course I do, Ron," said Hermione. "He was one of the Ravenclaw prefects for our year; don't you remember?"

Ron tried to think. He had, of course, been in the Hogwarts Expresss prefects' carriage with Hermione and the others during their fifth-year journey to school, but all he could remember about it was the way it had turned his stomach to watch Pansy Parkinson toying with Draco Malfoy's hair – that and the freezing looks that Padma Patil had shot him every so often. If there had been someone named Goldstein in the compartment, it hadn't registered with him.

"Um – no," he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Anthony Goldstein," she said, "was the only son of Laurence Goldstein, the experimental potioneer and Floo-powder magnate."

"Laurence Goldstein?" Ron repeated. "Not that rich old nutter who blew himself up in his laboratory a few years ago while he was testing some new compound?"

Hermione pursed her lips, as though thinking that this summary of the incident, while correct in essentials, could perhaps have been more delicately phrased. "Laurence Goldstein died in a laboratory accident in 1993, yes," she said.

"Exactly," said Thicknesse. "And, what was more, he took his wife, Jessica, out with him, leaving young Anthony, at the age of thirteen, the legal possessor of one of the largest private fortunes in wizarding Britain. Of course, until he came of age, his Aunt Portia Baughurst served as his trustee, but, when he turned seventeen on 11 December, 1996, he came into full possession – and almost the first thing he did was to summon the family solicitor, Balthasar Polkinghorne, and had him make out a will leaving all his worldly goods to Miss Hannah Abbott."

Hermione saw Ron straining his mind to remember who Hannah Abbott might be, and leaned over and whispered, "Hufflepuff prefect, same year."

"Right, right," said Ron, his face clearing. "So why did this Anthony bloke want to leave her the Goldstein millions?"

"Because he loved her," said Thicknesse simply. "The two of them had become quite besotted with each other over the course of the previous year – their shared prefectorial duties and their mutual membership in the D.A. both helped this process along, I believe – and had made a vow to marry as soon as they left school. However, on the off chance that he didn't live that long, young Anthony wanted to make sure that Miss Abbott was provided for – and, as the Goldsteins have never been a family that believed in half measures, he decided to bequeath to her every Knut of his twenty-million-Galleon ancestral holdings."

Ron whistled. "Twenty million Galleons for throwing a few potions around?" he said. "How come none of my ancestors could get in on that?"

Thicknesse shrugged. "Probably they were just unlucky," he said. "Certainly the entrepreneurial spirit doesn't seem to be lacking in your family, to judge by the last price I heard quoted on Weasley's Wizard Wheezes stocks. Just the same, though, you'll have to be very lucky indeed if you expect to catch up with the Goldstein Floo Consortium; I think there are only two wizards in Europe who are worth as much as Anthony Goldstein was, and one of them is in Nurmengard right now for bank fraud."

"Why do you keep referring to Anthony in the past tense?" Hermione wanted to know. "He _wasn't_ killed before he left school, was he? I once saw a list of everyone who died in the Battle of Hogwarts, and I know Anthony Goldstein's name wasn't listed."

Ron and Thicknesse both shook their heads, the former in awe at his wife's memory, the latter in simple denial. "No, Anthony and Hannah both survived," said Thicknesse. "They did not, however, marry immediately upon their graduation, as they had vowed; Anthony's Aunt Portia saw to that."

Ron frowned. "Why?" he said. "Did she not like Hannah?" From what he remembered of Hannah Abbott, he found it hard to believe that anyone could dislike her, but he knew from firsthand experience how capricious aunts could be with their approval.

Thicknesse sighed. "Portia Baughurst is not the most pleasant woman in the world," he said. "Ever since her brother made his first million, she's had a sort of proprietary feeling about the family fortune. Once she found out that Hannah was the daughter of a struggling Muggle shopkeeper in Liverpool, I don't think anyone could have convinced her that she wasn't a ruthless gold-digger who had wormed her way into Anthony's heart so she could have a crack at his Gringotts vault."

"That's disgusting," said Hermione sharply.

Thicknesse smiled ruefully. "When you've spent enough time among the rich and powerful, Mrs Weasley," he said, "you'll realise that most of the things they do are disgusting. But that's neither here nor there. The point is that Mrs Goldstein was determined to prevent her nephew from marrying Miss Abbott, and for the next two years she kept throwing obstacles in their way: scheduling complications, background checks on Hannah, feigned illness, anything she could dream up. Finally, Anthony and Hannah got fed up with the whole thing; they decided to just elope and be done with it, and, on 12 August of this year, they were married by a Muggle Presbyterian minister in a small private chapel in Aberdeen."

"12 August?" said Ron with a frown. "That's when Hermione and I got married."

"Yes," said Thicknesse inscrutably. "But, unlike you, the Goldsteins never made it to their honeymoon. The details on this point are a bit sketchy, but it seems that Anthony was reluctant to completely deprive Hannah of her rights as a millionaire's bride, and so he booked the two of them a room at the Sia..."

"The what?" said Hermione.

"Famous wizards' hotel up near Edinburgh," said Ron. "Hideously expensive. Great-Aunt Muriel stayed there once."

"Yes, it's one of Scotland's more notable magical landmarks," said Thicknesse. "And it's only going to be more famous, now that it's the site of such a sensational murder."

That got Ron's attention. "Murder?" he repeated. "There was a murder at the Sia?"

"Oh, no," Hermione gasped. "It was the Goldsteins, wasn't it? That's what you've been leading up to all this time. Someone killed Anthony and Hannah on their wedding night."

Thicknesse nodded sombrely. "That's about the size of it," he said.

"But... but why?"

"Because they were former D.A. members," said Thicknesse. "The murderer was a Death Eater."

Hermione gasped again, and Ron felt his stomach grow queasy. This was the last thing either of them wanted to hear: that one of Voldemort's servants, his or her mind bent on revenge, had escaped from Azkaban and was hunting down the veterans of Dumbledore's Army.

"Which one?" Hermione whispered. "Avery? Lucius Malfoy? One of the Carrows?"

"No, no." Thicknesse shook his head. "No-one like that. His name was Orestes Boldkey, and he was Lord Voldemort's accountant."

Ron blinked. "Voldemort had an accountant?"

Thicknesse smiled crookedly. "It costs money to take over the wizarding world, Mr Weasley," he said. "Someone has to be entrusted with the task of looking after that money – and, of course, that someone has to combine a good head for figures with an unswerving loyalty to the would-be conqueror. Boldkey fulfilled both criteria: he had breezed through his Arithmancy N.E.W.T. in 1963, and he felt about Voldemort roughly the way that 19th-century French Muggles felt about Napoleon."

"Who..." Ron began.

"Never mind, Ron," said Hermione irritably.

"She's quite right," said Thicknesse. "No need for me to show off my Muggle-history knowledge. The point is that Boldkey worshipped his master – and, when his master was killed at the Battle of Hogwarts, and he found himself one of the few Death Eaters obscure enough to have slipped through the Ministry's fingers, he determined to exact revenge on the organisation that had brought about his master's downfall. I don't know why he started with the Goldsteins – unless perhaps he was going by alphabetical order, in which case Hannah Abbott would naturally have been his first target – but, in any event, he did. Around 5:30 p.m. on 12 August, he Apparated into their suite (poor Suite 84, which no-one's ever going to want to sleep in again), and – well, the rest of the details are known only to the three eyewitnesses, none of whom, unfortunately, are in a condition to provide them." He sighed heavily.

Ron didn't follow the train of thought. "Um... why is it unfortunate that you don't know the details?" he said.

"And why can't you get them?" said Hermione. "Obviously, Anthony and Hannah can't tell you anything about it - but surely, once you've apprehended Boldkey..."

"Boldkey has already been apprehended, Mrs Weasley," said Thicknesse. "I think you fail to realise how busy the Ministry has been while you and your husband were abroad. The staff of the Sia, attracted by the sounds of a struggle, discovered the crime – complete with Boldkey's 'manifesto' – only moments after Boldkey Disapparated. On the morning of the 13th, the _Daily Prophet_ ran a front-page story headlined 'Grisly Double Murder at Sia Hotel'; by 3 o'clock that afternoon, every Auror in Britain was searching for the malefactor." (He said this with a steely glint in his eye, and Ron got the impression that he had rather enjoyed issuing that particular order.) "Unfortunately, the one who eventually found him was Sohrab Dupris, a marvelously talented young spell-caster who has not yet learned real finesse. When Boldkey reached for his wand, Dupris instinctively fired off the most potent spell he knew – namely, the Atomisation Jinx – and, by the time the dust cleared, what remained of Boldkey was so thoroughly mingled with the surrounding countryside that Psyche herself couldn't have separated them."

"Oh," said Hermione faintly.

Thicknesse nodded. "Dupris has been reassigned to desk duty, needless to say," he said. "However, that still doesn't solve our witness problem."

"You still haven't told us what that is, you know," said Ron. "Why is it bad that you don't know exactly what happened at the Sia? You know that the Goldsteins were killed..."

"Yes," said Thicknesse, "but in what order?"

Ron blinked. "How's that?"

"Who died first, Hannah or Anthony?" said Thicknesse. "That's the question that's got us baffled."

"Oh," said Ron. "Um... is that important?"

"It is if you care what happens to the third-largest private wizarding fortune in Europe," said Thicknesse. "Anthony's will, you will recall, left all his worldly goods to Hannah. When he died, therefore, she became the legal possessor of the Goldstein fortune – unless she was already dead, in which case it reverted to his nearest living relative, the lovely and charming Portia Baughurst. On the other hand, if she died after him – even if it was only ten seconds after him – then on _her_ death it would have reverted to _her_ nearest living relative: her brother, Christopher Wilkinson."

"Wilkinson?" Hermione repeated.

"Wilkinson," Thicknesse confirmed.

"But... if her maiden name was Abbott, how can her brother name be Wilkinson?"

"That is a long and complicated story that has nothing whatsoever to do with our present topic," said Thicknesse firmly. "As I say, nobody currently living knows whether Hannah or Anthony died first, which means that no-one knows whether the Goldstein fortune belongs to Mrs Baughurst or Mr Wilkinson. And the problem is that wizarding wills have a tendency to enforce themselves, so that, if the wrong person were to claim the money, he or she would likely meet a premature death, or go insane, or suffer some other misfortune akin to what used to happen to Defence against the Dark Arts teachers at Hogwarts before Voldemort's death. Neither of the claimants particularly wants to test that – even if Gringotts regulations permitted them to, which they don't."

"Couldn't you use a Time-Turner?" Hermione wanted to know. "Have someone stand in the suite where they were staying, turn it back until they were at the appropriate time, and then watch what happens?"

Thicknesse raised his eyebrows. "Is that an offer, Mrs Weasley?" he said. "Are you volunteering to materialise in a hotel room where a crazed Death Eater is committing double homicide, merely to resolve a dispute about inheritance rights?"

"Oh," said Hermione. "No, I suppose not."

"I didn't think so," said Thicknesse. "No, there's only one real way to determine who died when. That's why I asked the two of you here."

"Us?" said Ron, startled. "What can we do?"

Thicknesse took a deep breath. "Tell me, Mr Weasley, Mrs Weasley," he said, "are either of you familiar with Rorrignol's Fugue Philtre?"

Ron, who wasn't, glanced at his wife to see if the name meant anything to her. Hermione's forehead was creased in thought, and on her lips was the small, exasperated frown that was characteristic of her when she could only half-remember one of the thousands of facts stored in her brain. "Rorrignol?" she said slowly. "Isn't there a retroprojection expert at Beauxbatons by that name?"

"Ah," said Thicknesse. "You're familiar with the field of retroprojective spells, then, Mrs Weasley?"

Hermione and Ron exchanged a knowing smile. Thicknesse, of course, had no way of knowing (unless he made a hobby of going through the Hogwarts archives, which would have been rather out of character for so un-scholarly a Minister) that Hermione had done her N.E.W.T. thesis on retroprojection – had, in fact, performed the Volkgedächtnis Charm on herself, and spent an hour as a twenty-five-year-old Muggle woman in the 1st-century Near East.

"Yes, Minister," said Hermione, "I'm quite familiar with the field of retroprojective spells."

"Good," said Thicknesse. "Then you know that one of the oldest problems in the field is the problem of specificity. None of the standard R-P spells let you choose whose consciousness you're going to experience the past through; they just record your memetic structure, look around for someone in the time period who's a good fit, and that's who youre stuck with."

"Yes, that's certainly a problem," Hermione agreed. (Once again, there was a certain amount of irony in her response. Ron had never quite figured out the details, but apparently Hermione had seen something through her 1st-century Near-Easterner's eyes that had upset her entire philosophy of life; this, it seemed, was why a woman who had once openly scoffed at Xenophilius Lovegood's belief in the Resurrection Stone was now quietly collecting information about a certain Muggle religion and a prophet who had supposedly returned from the dead.)

"Well, about five years ago," said Thicknesse, "Professor René Rorrignol of Beauxbatons Academy had the bright idea of combining the principles of retroprojection with the principles of Polyjuice Potion. His idea was that if he took bits of hair or fingernail that had been acquired from a person at a certain time, and then mixed them into a particular potion that he had been working on, the person who drank the potion should experience the hour before the bits were taken just as the person himself had experienced it."

"Really?" said Hermione, looking deeply impressed. "Did it work?"

"In a way," said Thicknesse. "It turned out that, if you took the bits from a living person, then their vital force conflicted with the ingredients in the potion so badly that it couldn't be drunk at all. But, if you took bits from a body that had been dead for between twenty-four and forty-eight hours, the potion went down as smooth as butter – and the drinker would then experience the last hour of that person's life."

There was a resounding silence in the Minister's office as the Weasleys absorbed the implications of that statement. Ron could actually feel himself turning green, and Hermione seemed to be searching for the moral principle that she was sure was violated by drinking bits of a dead body. Before she could find it, however, Thicknesse spoke again.

"Of course," he said, "memetics still makes a difference, even with the Fugue Philtre. If your psychic makeup is too different from the person you're projecting yourself into, there's always the risk of mental damage; Rorrignol's first few test subjects demonstrated that quite nicely. That's why it's so fortunate that we happen to have on hand two young newlyweds, of the same age and blood status as the Goldsteins, who happen to have gone through much the same formative experiences in their teenage years, right down to serving as Hogwarts prefects and being members of the..."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute!" said Ron. "You don't seriously expect Hermione and me to..."

"Certainly," said Thicknesse, fixing Ron with a hard stare. "Is there some reason I shouldn't?"

"But... but..." Ron sputtered, "we'll _die_, won't we? If you experience the last hour of a person's life, doesn't that end with the person dying?"

"Not really," said Thicknesse. "The moment of death is the cut-off point for the projection. You'll experience everything up to that point, but not death itself. And, since the Goldsteins both died by Avada Kedavra, there won't be any death agonies for you to suffer; presumably, you'll just see Boldkey raise his wand, he'll say the spell, and poof, you'll be back at the Ministry. Now, surely you can handle that?"

His tone clearly implied that if they _couldn't_ handle it, then the Gryffindor reputation for courage was, in his opinion, vastly exaggerated. Ron recognised this, and was about to respond indignantly when Hermione touched him on the arm. "Minister," she said, "could we please have a few minutes alone to discuss this?"

"You certainly may, Mrs Weasley," said Thicknesse, rising from his desk. "I'll be out in the hall when you're ready."

He strode out the door, and Ron turned and glared at his wife. "Great Merlin's afterbirth, Hermione," he said, "what was that for?"

"I wanted to keep you from embarrassing yourself in front of the Minister of Magic," said Hermione austerely. "And I thought it might be a good thing if we could talk about his proposal sensibly."

Ron gaped at her. "You don't mean you're actually considering it?" he said. "I figured that you, of all people..."

"I won't pretend that I like the idea," said Hermione. "But the Minister's right: it's the only way to make sure the legacy gets correctly awarded, and we're the best candidates he's going to find. If we don't agree to it, the entire Goldstein fortune's just going to sit in its vault at Gringotts until doomsday – unless Mrs Baughurst and Christopher Wilkinson agree to bequeath their own estates to the same person, which, given the way the Minister described Mrs Baughurst, doesn't seem at all likely to me."

"Well, what's wrong with that?" said Ron. "It's not as though this Dogburst woman needs the money..."

"Maybe not," said Hermione, "but Christopher Wilkinson does."

This angle caught Ron off guard. "You know Wilkinson?"

"Not personally, no," said Hermione, "but you heard what Thicknesse said about Hannah's father being a struggling shopkeeper in Liverpool. How do you think his son's going to feel if he never gets to touch twenty million Galleons that may legally be his, just because you and I flinched from drinking a potion?"

She had found a talking point. Ron knew firsthand what it was like to grow up skating on the edge of poverty; if anyone had dangled a Floo-powder fortune before his eyes and then snatched it away again, he would have felt a strong temptation to go poking through the Restricted Section of Hogwarts's library, to see if he could find a copy of _How to Cast the Cruciatus Curse in Three Easy Lessons_. His face clouded as he groped through the moral imperatives of the case.

Then, abruptly, it cleared again; he had thought of something. "Hang on," he said. "Why couldn't Thicknesse just summon the Goldsteins' house-elf and see whose orders he obeys? You know, the way Dumbledore did with Kreacher when there was that question about Harry's inheritance."

Hermione gave him an exasperated look. "The Goldsteins didn't keep a house-elf, Ron," she said. "Jessica Goldstein had a phobia of anyone but other humans touching her dishes. If you'd read the S.P.E.W. pamphlet about _Alternatives to Elvish Exploitation_, you'd know that; they were one of my principal examples."

"Oh," said Ron. "Well, then..." He racked his brain furiously, trying to come up with some other alternative scheme that didn't involve drinking bits of dead people and being vicariously killed by a maniacal bookkeeper.

"Well, then?" Hermione prompted him after a minute or so.

Ron sighed defeatedly. "Oh, fine," he said. "Let's go be stupidly noble on the slightest pretext. Godric Gryffindor would be proud of us, I suppose."

"That's the spirit," said Hermione with a smile.

"There we are, Miss Granger – Mrs Weasley, I should say," said Professor Slughorn, chuckling through his moustache as he set the tumbler of Philtre onto the small table at Hermione's side. "Merlin's beard, to think that only last year you were lighting up our little parties in my office, and now you're a married woman. How times do change."

Hermione smiled to herself. Times might change, she thought, but Horace Slughorn never would.

"How did you come to be involved in the Goldstein case, Professor?" she said. "I don't seem to remember Anthony being at the old Slug-Club meetings."

"No," Slughorn acknowledged, his face darkening. "No, young Goldstein never quite took to me for some reason. Probably it had something to do with that unpleasantness about his mother, when she was at Hogwarts – but that's a long and depressing story, and I won't trouble you with it. No, but when poor Dupris annihilated that ghastly accountant, Dirk – Dirk Cresswell, you know, the past and current head of the Goblin Liaison Office – he paid a call on me to see if I could suggest anything to solve the Ministry's inheritance problem. A number of my former students seem to instinctively look to me for the solutions to their difficulties..." His face glowed with self-satisfaction. "Anyway, I happened to mention Rorrignol's Fugue Philtre, and Dirk was quite taken with the idea – and so was Thicknesse, when we proposed it to him. Of course, we had to act quickly to get the bodily samples before they lost all structural integrity, but we managed all right. And now I think it's high time you sampled the fruit of my labours and joined your husband in Suite 84."

Hermione nodded obediently and picked up the tumbler. She stared into it critically, and couldn't repress a slight shudder: though Rorrignol's Fugue Philtre was more presentable than Polyjuice Potion, being slightly less viscous and of a rather pleasant dark-purple colour, it was still similar enough to its cousin to betray their common origin.

"Well, go on, go on, my dear," said Slughorn, with a sort of genial brusqueness. "It's not going to get any prettier if you stare at it."

Hermione was forced to see the justice of this. She raised the tumbler to her lips, took a deep breath, and tilted the fluid into her mouth. It was repulsive, of course, but with such a curious and oddly intriguing sort of repulsiveness – it had rather the flavour of blackcurrant wine mixed with Gruyère cheese and boiled potatoes – that she managed to swallow the whole thing without coming up for air. And no sooner had she done so, and replaced the empty tumbler onto the side table, than a sudden sensation of irresistible lethargy swept over her, and she sank down limply into the cushions of the couch where she had been sitting.

Through the haze of her vision, she saw Slughorn beaming down at her with an almost paternal air. "That's it, Miss Granger, get comfortable," he said. "You're in for quite a ride over the course of the next hour; no sense in not getting as cozy as you can beforehand."

"What about the house-elf?" Hermione mumbled.

Slughorn ignored this – quite properly, as it was merely a random locution inspired by the Philtre's soporifics, and Hermione herself had no clear idea of what she meant by it. "Now, it would probably be best," he said, "if you could get yourself into a frame of mind fairly close to what Mrs Goldstein was feeling on that terrible evening. Perhaps if you were to put yourself in mind of your own wedding night..."

Hermione gave what was supposed to be a compliant murmur (though it came out more like a groan) and tried to focus her rapidly clouding mind on that glorious first evening in Kingston. She thought of how the tropical moon had gleamed down like a silver torch, bathing everything on the beach in a bewitching half-light; of how the cool evening breeze (so different from the scorching heat that had afflicted Kingston at all other hours of the day) had slid across her skin, filling her nostrils with the smell of the Caribbean Sea; of how Ron, that night in the hotel, had almost made her believe the old superstitions about purity of blood; of how... how...

Then all her thoughts became jumbled, and her head fell forward as the trance took hold. _Ron, _she thought as she slid into darkness. _Ron... Philtre... the moon... Goldstein... Ron..._

* * *

"Careful, Anthony!" Hermione squealed, clinging to Ron's neck as he stumbled on the threshold of Suite 84. "I know you're supposed to break something tonight, but I don't think its my neck!"

Ron arched his eyebrows in surprise. "Getting a little _espiègle_ there, aren't we, Hannah?" he said.

"We've been behaving ourselves for two years, Anthony," said Hermione. "It's time for us to have fun."

Ron chuckled, and shook his head. "And people say that Hufflepuffs are Twee purveyors," he said. "Well, if it's any consolation, Hannah, I doubt I could do you much harm even if I did drop you. The Sia doesn't spend sixty Galleons a bolt on its carpeting for nothing."

Hermione frowned, kicked off a shoe, and ran her toes through the thick, soft shags of their wedding suite's orchid-coloured carpet. "Wow," she said, her eyes widening. "No, I guess not. What do they make this out of?"

"Barometz wool, I think," said Ron. "Glorious stuff, but not too easy to come by. When each lamb grows on a beanstalk and never gets much bigger than a mouse, it takes a goodish bit of labour to get enough wool to carpet a room."

"Not to mention money," Hermione added.

"Oh, of course," said Ron. "But that's not an issue here. This is the Sia: the Inn of Princes – and of princesses, such as Her Royal Highness Hannah Goldstein."

With a grin, he tossed Hermione gently onto the enormous brass bed in the centre of the room; then he walked over to the other side of the bed, kicked off his shoes, and flopped down beside her. Hermione snuggled up against him; he reached out a hand and started toying with her trademark blonde ringlets, and for a few minutes neither of them spoke.

"Was this where your parents spent their wedding night?" Hermione murmured at length.

"Mum and Dad?" said Ron. "Not likely. They were married in a little chapel in Wales; as soon as they got out of the reception, they Apparated to the nearest hilltop and spent the rest of the night stargazing."

"Really?" said Hermione. "Well, that must have been rather romantic."

"Depends on what you mean by romantic," said Ron. "My dad spent the first five minutes soliloquising on celestial mechanics."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ravenclaws," she said.

"Oh, yes, we're a wild and savage race," said Ron. "The civilised world has been trying for centuries to train us to behave in the presence of ladies, but, when the chips are down, pedantry overcomes polish every time."

"Well, I hope you aren't planning on doing the same thing," said Hermione. "I'm tired enough as it is; if you start pulling a Professor Sinistra, I'll probably be fast asleep before you're ready for the good stuff."

"Astronomy lectures? Me?" Ron chuckled. "Hardly. Remember, I'm the fellow who once pointed to Orion and said, 'What constellation's that big butterfly thing part of?'"

Hermione laughed delightedly. "Oh, I love you, Anthony," she said.

Ron smiled softly. "I love you, too, Hannah."

"I got so sick of that aunt of yours," said Hermione fiercely. "'Oh, you can't get married right out of school, you must wait at least six months'... 'We'll have to reschedule that wedding of yours, darling, your uncle's not feeling up to it just now'... 'Marry in January? Oh, no, my dears, not with your blood status'... I mean, honestly, who did she think she was?"

"Oh, Aunt Portia's all right," said Ron. "I won't say she's the most lovable person in England, but she means well enough."

"What do I care what she means?" said Hermione. "She kept me from you. That makes her a wicked old crone."

Ron blinked and cocked his head. "You really mean that, don't you?" he said.

"Of course I mean it," said Hermione. To her, it was a simple equation: for the two of them to be married was an obvious good; any attempt to prevent it was therefore wicked; Portia Baughurst had attempted to prevent it; therefore, Portia Baughurst was wicked. She couldn't understand why stating that conclusion seemed to paralyse her husband with awe.

"By Mannanan's cauldron," he murmured. "A fellow certainly takes on a responsibility when he makes you love him, doesn't he?"

Hermione shrugged. "I suppose," she said. "I suppose love always has responsibilities attached to it." Then she grinned. "Still, with responsibility comes privilege – and I think it's high time we started taking advantage of ours. What do you say?"

Ron's eyes twinkled. "That sounds like an excellent idea to me, Mrs Goldstein," he said – and the two of them came together in a passionate embrace, and for a moment Hermione thought of nothing but the overwhelming fact of being in Ron's arms, with his lips soft against hers and the odour of him filling her nostrils.

"How touching," sneered a voice. "The Mudblood and the little tycoon enjoying a tender moment."

The shock of hearing another person in their private suite, combined with the grotesqueness of such a comment at such a moment, froze Ron and Hermione in their place for a full second. Then, simultaneously, they released each other and turned around. Standing by the bureau at the far end of the room, where there had assuredly been no-one five seconds before, stood a short, balding man in horn-rimmed spectacles and grey robes. On his round, nondescript face was a look of the purest hatred, and the left sleeve of his robe was rolled up to reveal a crude replica of the Dark Mark in black ink. This latter was very easy to see, because his left arm was extended, and, in the hand thereof, a pale-coloured wand was pointing directly at the newlyweds.

"Who are you?" said Ron sharply.

The man gave a small mock bow without lowering his wand. "Orestes Boldkey, bookkeeper to the Dark Lord, at your service," he said. "Or, rather, not at your service, since I serve no-one and nothing except the memory of my master."

"You'd do much better to serve the forgetfulness of your master," said Ron acidly. "The things that Voldemort forgot while he was busy acquiring power – justice, compassion, empathy – are the only things worth serving, in the end."

"A typically Dumbledorean fatuity, fully worthy of one of his D.A. lackeys," said Boldkey. "But I have more important things to do than bandy words with a peon of the White Bumblebee. _Accio Wands!_"

Hermione heard a ripping sound in the vicinity of her midriff; the next moment, her maple-wood wand had flown out of the sash of her wedding gown, and soared along with Ron's aspen wand into Boldkey's outstretched right hand. Without a word, Boldkey brought them down on the edge of the bureau, and, with a sickening crunch, they splintered into four useless fragments.

Contemptuously, Boldkey tossed them to one side (Hermione swallowed a lump in her throat as she saw the remains of her loyal baton lying limply against the radiator, its phoenix-feather core poking out as though half ashamed of its plight) and returned his gaze to the bed. "As the wands, so the masters," he said, as though he were enunciating some basic magical principle. "Ladies first, I think."

He pointed his wand directly at Hermione's forehead, and, with positive relish, shouted, "_Avada Kedavra!_"

Until that moment, Hermione hadn't fully understood what a Death Eater was doing in their suite. As she had said, she was quite tired – planning even a private wedding drains a fair amount of energy out of the bride – and, in any event, she didn't have the sort of mind that processes new situations quickly. Now, however, as she saw the green jet of light speeding toward her, she cursed herself for her dullness. Why hadn't she caught on sooner? Why hadn't she whipped out her wand and blasted Boldkey with a Tongue-Tying Jinx as soon as she saw him standing there? Here she was, on the very threshold of full womanhood, within hailing distance of something she had dreamed of all her life, and now she was going to die before she reached it, simply because she hadn't been clever enough to see her peril as it loomed.

All this went through her mind in a fraction of a second. The next moment, all thought was thrust from her mind – not by Boldkey's curse, but by a totally unexpected action on her husband's part. With breathtaking swiftness, as though he had been preparing for it ever since he saw Boldkey extending his wand, he whipped out his hand and placed it between Hermione's forehead and the oncoming bolt of green – and then, before either Hermione or Boldkey had a chance to cry out, the Killing Curse made contact with his flesh, and he fell forward and collapsed lifelessly into his wife's lap.

The stunned silence that followed only lasted for a minute or so in real time, but to Hermione it seemed the longest silence of her life. In the empty brown eyes that stared up at her out of the face that was no longer Ron's, she seemed to see all her future, all she had ever hoped or longed for, falling and shriveling away into nothingness.

Ron – dead. The man she loved, the man whose life was more important to her than her own, the man to whom she had given her heart in every way except the merely literal: dead. Her husband, her desired lord, the father of children who now would never be hers: dead, dead, all dead. In three minutes, an accountant with an ink-stained arm had stolen her entire life, and left nothing but a vacant corpse in return.

Her head shot upward, and she gazed with cold fury at Orestes Boldkey. He was standing frozen by the bureau, looking almost comically flabbergasted by Ron's instinctive act of love. Hermione hadn't realised until that moment how idiotic he looked in those spectacles; if she had happened to be holding a rock, she would have thrown it at him just to see if she could knock them off his face. But the only thing she was holding was the body of her husband – and so, with the peculiar logic of rage, she uttered a loud cry and heaved that at him.

It didn't get very far, of course: Ron had been a good deal larger than she was, and she had never been a physically strong person. However, the sheer unexpectedness of it, to a man already bewildered, was enough to induce something like panic. Boldkey, seeing the corpse of his victim tumbling toward him, lost his head completely, and started casting a series of utterly pointless spells at Ron's body. "_Obliviate!_" he screeched. _"Hominum revelio! Expecto Patronum!_"

Hermione, meanwhile, had lunged for the bedside table and grabbed the lamp that was resting thereon. Like every other piece of the Hotel Sia's décor, it was extraordinarily ornate and preposterously expensive, and under ordinary circumstances Hermione would have been too intimidated even to turn it on, but in her current state of mind she was incapable of seeing it as anything but a convenient projectile. She snatched it off the table, whirled around to face Boldkey, and let it fly.

Had she thought to aim it at the wand in his hand, she might very well have survived the evening. Boldkey's wand was sturdier than most, but a well-aimed table lamp could still have splintered it without difficulty. Unfortunately, however, the focus of Hermione's rage was still directed at the accountant's glasses, and it was therefore toward his head that she directed her weapon. The collision was a satisfying one – the base of the lamp struck Boldkey right on the forehead, raising a nasty bruise just above his right eyebrow – but its main effect was to recall Boldkey to his purpose, and it must therefore be considered ultimately undesirable.

"_Petrificus Totalus!_" shouted the assassin, raising his wand to the bed. Hermione felt her body stiffen, and she fell helplessly forward, coming to rest on her back in the middle of the bed. She couldn't see what happened next, but, judging by the sound, it seemed likely that Boldkey was kicking Ron's body aside; then, with a rustle of robes, he stepped forward and loomed over her.

"_Mudblood_," he hissed, and Hermione doubted that the word had ever been spoken with more hatred. "You thought, perhaps, that you would be allowed to live once the Dark Lord was dead? The Dark Lord has conquered death; through his true followers, he wreaks his vengeance even from the grave."

Hermione ignored him. Now that there was nothing she could do except lie still and wait for the end, a strange peace had come over her, as though the future that had been stolen from her when Ron was killed was about to be given back to her with her own death. It was not a feeling she could have explained, but it was one that gave great comfort to feel.

There was a sound of commotion in the hallway outside, and Boldkey raised his head in alarm. "Security coming," he muttered. "Pity. I was hoping to make you scream a bit for that trick with the lamp, but there doesn't seem to be time for that. Best to just get it over with."

And, for the second time that evening, he raised his wand, pointed it at Hermione's forehead, and cried, "_Avada Kedavra!_"...

..."Oh, here we are, here she comes," came Professor Slughorn's voice. "Not to worry, Minister, you'll have your answer for certain in just a moment."

Hermione blinked and looked around. She was back on the couch in the Minister's office, and Professor Slughorn, Minister Thicknesse, and (she flinched involuntarily) Ron were standing over her with varying degrees of anxiety.

"Well, Mrs Weasley?" said Thicknesse. "Did you see what we hoped you would?"

"Minister, you can't ask her that now," said Ron. "Give her a moment to wake up first, and then..."

"Anthony died first," said Hermione abruptly. It was kind of Ron to worry about her, but somehow she didn't want to hear his voice just now. Now that she was no longer Hannah Goldstein, the serenity that Hannah had felt on the verge of death was no longer hers, and the memory of Ron's – Anthony's – corpse lying stiff in her lap was still too raw for her to want it reawakened.

"Anthony?" said Slughorn, with an expression of pleased surprise.

"Yes," said Hermione, speaking very quickly. "Boldkey was aiming for Hannah, but Anthony blocked his spell. I don't think he was thinking about the inheritance; he just wanted to keep her safe as long as he could."

"Noble, very noble," said Slughorn. He was quite visibly beaming; evidently his stock was better with the Abbott/Wilkinson family than with the Goldstein/Baughursts.

"Quite so," Thicknesse agreed. "Well, Mrs Granger, if you'd be willing to come in tomorrow and sign a few affidavits to that effect in the presence of witnesses, I think that would satisfy ever the most scrupulous of Gringotts's goblins."

"I'd be happy to," said Hermione. "May I go home now?"

Thicknesse blinked, seeming surprised by her abruptness. "Certainly," he said. "The fireplace is just to your left; I'm sure you can..."

Hermione rose, strode over to the fireplace, and grabbed a handful of Floo powder and threw it among the flames. "Taigh Neasail!" she shouted, and stepped into the verdant fire without so much as a backward glance at the three wizards.

_Take me away,_ she thought as the flames wrapped around her. _Oh, merciful God, take me away..._

Later that evening, Ron was sitting in the bed at Taigh Neasail, paging through the book of chess theory that Hermione had given him on his last birthday, and trying to control his moral indignation. Hypermodernism, like many industrial-era Muggle innovations, had not yet reached the wizarding world, and the author's description of the Nimzo-Indian Defense was upsetting all of Ron's most firmly-held convictions.

"B-N5?" he demanded aloud. "What do you mean, B-N5? Doesn't he understand that he's going to lose his bishop that way? All White has to do is play P-QR3, and the only question left is, does he take a pawn or a knight out with him? Even Harry wouldn't make that mistake."

And, with an irritated sigh at Aron Nimzovich's obtuseness, he flung the book aside (narrowly missing the mirror on the vanity, which let out an outraged squawk) and rose to head down to the kitchen. There was a big bottle of firewhiskey down there that George had given them for their wedding; a decent-sized glass out of that, and maybe these crazy Muggle strategies would start making sense to him.

On his way downstairs, however, he was distracted by a noise coming from the hall bathroom, as of a feminine voice whispering something in an urgent monotone. He frowned; who could Hermione be talking to at this hour? And why would she pick the loo as the proper place to do it?

He tiptoed up to the door and tapped on it with his knuckles. "Hermione?" he whispered. "Are you in there?"

There was a short yelp, followed by an odd clattering noise. "Um, yes," came Hermione's voice through the door. "Yes, come in."

Obligingly, Ron eased open the door. Hermione was sitting on the closed toilet lid; her right hand was holding her dressing gown closed, and her left was awkwardly concealing a long string of cheap plastic beads. (Enough of this latter object was visible for an amused Ron to recognise it; it was a sort of prayer aid associated with that Muggle religion that Hermione's experience with the Volkgedächtnis Charm had gotten her so interested in.) What bothered Ron, however, was the expression of numb desperation on her face when she looked at him; she had been looking like that ever since they got back from the Ministry, and he hadn't the faintest notion why.

"So, Mione," he said, with a touch of forced levity in his tone, "were you planning on coming to bed at some point?"

"Oh," said Hermione, and a sudden flash of alarm crossed her face. "No, I think I'll sleep in the parlour tonight, actually. I hope you don't mind."

Ron frowned. "Hermione, what is going on?" he demanded. "Ever since you came out of that Rorrignol trance of yours, you've been acting as though I had Sangsauf's Pestilence or something. You've barely looked at me, you've jerked away when I've tried to touch you..."

Hermione sighed miserably. "I'm sorry, Ron," she said. "I suppose no-one could understand who hadn't experienced it..."

"But I did experience it, Hermione," said Ron, annoyed. "I drank the same potion you did. Of course, mine had Anthony's hair in it instead of Hannah's, but otherwise it was exactly the same."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, Ron," she said dolefully. "It was."

"Well, then, what did you experience that I didn't?" Ron demanded. "What can possibly be so traumatising about the extra three minutes you had in Suite Whatever-Number-It-Was that it makes a one-seventh slayer of Voldemort afraid to sleep in the same bed with her husband? I'm not saying being murdered by a Death Eater is a fun experience, but..."

"Oh, Ron, don't you understand?" Hermione burst out. "It wasn't being killed; it was watching you die!"

Ron blinked. "What?"

"Isn't it obvious?" said Hermione. "When we drank the Philtre, we became the Goldsteins for that period of time. I was Hannah, and you were Anthony which meant, of course, that Hannah was me and Anthony was you. Didn't you feel, while you were living those events, that it was me you were carrying across the threshold and shielding from Boldkey's Killing Curse?"

Ron hesitated. In truth, since he didn't have as acute a dream-memory as Hermione did, a lot of his own Rorrignol trance was rather confused in his mind, but what Hermione said seemed to correspond well with the vague feelings that his vision had left in him. "Yeah," he acknowledged. "I guess I did."

"Of course you did," said Hermione. "That's the way retroprojection works: it imbues the memory-construct with the psychic essence of its temporary inhabitant. And so when Anthony..." Here her voice caught in her throat, and she had to swallow several times before she could continue. "When Anthony died, and his corpse fell into Hannah's lap, it wasn't _him_ that I saw lying dead; it was _you_, Ron, _you!_ Can't you see what that means? Can't you understand why I can barely even look at you without… without..."

And she lost all control and broke down into tears.

Ron stared dumbly at her, his mind slowly processing the idea. To see the one you love lie dead in your arms; to know, with the sickening certainty that a lifeless body demands, that you will never see or talk to this most precious of persons again; and then to have that same person casually integrated back into your life as though nothing had ever happened – yes, Ron could see how that might be hard to deal with.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I didn't realise..."

Hermione sniffed, and wiped her eyes with a piece of toilet tissue. "Oh, it's all right, Ron," she said, and indeed she seemed a good deal better for having permitted herself to cry about it. "I'm sure I'll get over it in a day or two – well, maybe not quite that soon, but soon enough. But I just can't handle sleeping in your bed tonight."

"No, of course not," Ron agreed. "Stupid of me to ask. Tell you what, I'll go see if I can figure out which closet Bill left the spare bedsheets in, and I'll make the parlour sofa nice and cozy for you, all right?"

Hermione let out a deep breath, and smiled up at him with the remnants of her tears sparkling in her eyes. "Thank you, Ron," she said. "You're a very kind person. I wish I didn't forget that so often."

Ron had gotten relatively few compliments over the course of his life, and he had never quite learned how to handle them. Faced with this one, he simply flushed, murmured something unintelligible, and turned to leave the bathroom and embark on his quest for spare bedsheets.

As he eased the door shut, he heard the clatter of beads again, and Hermione's whispered prayer apparently picking up just where it had left off. "…_and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus,_" came the gentle yet impassioned words. "_Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death._"


	6. Recipient: WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot

**Title:** Disillusionment Charms

**Author: **?

**Recipient: **WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot

**Character/Pairing: **Neville Longbottom/Hannah Abbott

* * *

He stood before the assembled group of students. He knew he should look brave and determined, but he was sure that the look on his face matched the one of those around him – nervous and unsure. He cleared his throat and wasn't surprised at how quickly they all quieted down. The group wasn't as large as the last time it had assembled, but that was no surprise with all of the new bans that were in place. In fact, he saw new faces out there, ones that he had not seen previously.

"Er—" he began, "hello. Welcome to the first meeting this year of Dumbledore's Army." As he paused, someone in back started to applaud, and the rest of the students joined in. "Thank you. Now, I can see that some of you have never to a meeting before—"

"And some can't come to this one against their own will!" a voice shouted out. He sent a glare at the speaker, but she ignored him. "You may have heard that my brother's sick with spattergroit and that's the reason he's not here. But if you have any common sense you know that that's baloney and he is where Harry and Hermione are – fighting!" Ginny's voice rang throughout the Room of Requirement, her red hair framing her angry expression. Everyone muttered among themselves after her outburst, no doubt discussing what she had said. She turned back to Neville after a moment with a nod, getting herself in check.

"Right, well, they're not going to be the only ones fighting. I know you all have your Galleons, and if you're new then go and talk to Michael Corner or someone to get your own. Dumbledore's Army has come back and we will take down Snape and the Carrows," Neville proclaimed. "And we will fight for the muggleborns, who aren't here because of the Ministry's stupid delusions!" He felt his strength grow as he talked for the rest of the meeting, and nearly collapsed with exhaustion when they finally decided that they all had to leave for dinner.

Ginny, Luna and Seamus walked up to him when the meeting was over.

"I thought that was very good," Luna said.

"Right, thanks," Neville replied. He watched the rest of the crowd exit the Room of Requirement in twos and threes, and he noticed Hannah Abbott's gaze lingering on him from across the room. She turned away when she noticed him noticing her, and Neville felt his face flush.

"What are we going to do for the next meeting?" Seamus said, slowly.

"No idea," Neville said, looking at him. "It was enough trouble getting this one done."

"I may have an idea," Ginny said slowly.

"Great, what is it?" Neville asked.

"I'm still thinking about it… ask me next meeting," she replied.

--

The next meeting Neville was joined in the front of the Room of Requirement by Ginny. No one was completely sure as to how they took over Dumbledore's Army, but no one questioned them once they started to talk. They seemed the perfect leaders after Harry had left, and they took to the roles fittingly.

"We need to have a mission," Neville said. "We can just sit here and talk about what we want to do, or we can actually _do_ something and help get You-Know-Who off of our backs for good."

"I had an idea," Ginny continued. "As you all know, Albus Dumbledore died last summer at the hands of Severus Snape." There was a pause to acknowledge the former Headmaster. "I know that in his will he left Harry Potter the sword of Gryffindor, which you may have seen if you've ever visited the Headmasters office. Harry himself pulled it from the Sorting Hat when he faced You-Know-Who and had to save me from the Chamber of Secrets. But the Ministry denied Harry the sword. If Dumbledore left it to him, it must be important! So I think we should get it back, and get it to Harry somehow!"

A hand in the crowd shot up, and Ginny called on the fifth year.

"But how?" he asked. Ginny grinned.

"Well, we'll have to figure out a plan. And how we'll get to Harry, I have no idea, but it's better than letting Severus Snape have it for himself," she replied. "And, after all, it's a hell of a lot better than just sitting on our bums all day."

"Now, people, any ideas?" Neville asked. A few hands went up, some slower than others. Neville felt somewhat like a teacher as he called on a random hand.

"Disillusionment Charms," Hannah said. Something in his brain told him it wasn't a coincident that he chose her, but Neville ignored that fact.

"What?" he said.

"We could disillusion ourselves, and I think it might work on objects too," she replied.

"That seems like it might work," Ginny said. "Well, we'll need a group of people to get it first. I think Neville and I should do it, and Luna. After all, we fought with Harry last year when Dumbledore was killed and with Harry at the Ministry two years ago."

"But we'll need people to do backup and stuff as well," Neville said quickly, not wanting to bring up the old fights. "I think people from the old DA would be best, just because we've already had some training. Meanwhile, we'll also start doing training again, because I doubt that the Carrows will bother teaching us anything and we need to be prepared for any upcoming battles. With the way things are going, there's going to be a battle, and it's better to be prepared." He surveyed the people in front of him, getting a nod from the people that he gained eye contact with.

"Okay, Seamus, Parvati, Hannah, you'll be part of the retrieval team. Michael, Anthony, Colin, anyone else from the old DA, start rounding up people and form groups. We'll start training as soon as we can," Neville said. People immediately began moving around, and the Room of Requirement effortlessly expanded as groups began to forms. Neville himself was met by the familiar faces, and they all stood in front of him, awaiting further instructions.

_From me…_ Neville thought, giving himself a moment to let his power sink in. He wasn't quite used to this, but with new situations he just had to learn to go with the flow of things.

"Okay, Hannah, you said Disillusionment Charms. We'll have to have everyone practicing them, and we can't have any slipups. Does everyone know the charm?" he asked. The group before him nodded once.

"Just like this," Luna said, tapping her wand on Neville's head. He felt as if an egg had been cracked on his skull as he disappeared before his very eyes.

"Right," he said, before performing the countercharm. "Now, does it work on objects?" He looked at Hannah and she blushed slightly as she did so.

"I don't actually know, but in theory it seems that they should," she replied softly.

"Luna?" Neville said. Luna turned to a block of wood that had appeared out of nowhere and tapped it. It began to fade out of sight, and when she tapped it again it reappeared.

"Great," Neville said, smiling. "We'll have to practice, and we have to make sure that it'll work on every kind of object. We don't want any mess-ups."

--

They practiced whenever they had a free moment, whether it was Neville and Seamus all alone up in the boy's dormitory, or between classes on whatever unsuspecting suit of armor stood in their path. Further plans were made, and within a week they thought they had everything planned out. They practiced the Disillusionment Charms one last time as Neville, Ginny, Seamus and Parvati left the Gryffindor Common Room and met up with the other two after curfew.

"You have the password, right?" Neville whispered. He could see someone nod their head, with just a slight ruffle between their head and the wall behind them.

"Just don't ask how," Parvati whispered back. "It's _Silver Doe_."

"Okay," he whispered. "Let's go."

It wasn't a far trip to the Headmaster's office, but it felt like miles to Neville. He knew that Snape would be in his chamber at this time, and they had the fortune not to come across any patrolling teacher. As he went on, he thought about the plan. It all seemed too hasty, too wrong. But there was no going back now – either they gave up on it before anyone had caught them or they went through with it. And they were Dumbledore's Army. They didn't give up. They couldn't give up.

As they approached the Headmaster's office, they slowed down. They came to a complete stop not far from the gargoyle that guarded it.

"Okay, let's go," Neville repeated.

"Good luck," he heard Hannah whisper, and he knew it was directed at him. He was suddenly glad that he was Disillusioned as he felt his face grow hot. The last week he had been seeing a lot of Hannah, which he hadn't since they had been Herbology partners back in their second year. They were sort-of friends, but they had grown apart. _Hopefully not for too long_, Neville thought before banishing the thought from his mind.

They sidled up to the gargoyle, casting silencing charm after silencing charm. The last thing they needed was someone finding them only because of a noisy gargoyle. Neville barely heard Parvati whisper, "_Silver Doe_," over the sound of his heart beating, but suddenly the gargoyle was turning and he and Ginny and Luna were flying up the stairs and into the Headmaster's office. Hannah and Seamus and Parvati waited at the bottom, bracing themselves for any unwanted visitors and getting ready to run at the first sign of the others returning.

The three snuck into the office, finding the sword in the glass case almost instantly. They had no problem getting the case open, but when they had the Sword of Gryffindor in front of them they couldn't seem get the Disillusionment Charm to work. As they tried again and again, they didn't realize how noisy they were becoming.

"Well, well, well," a voice said from behind them, making them all jump. "What do we have here?" Neville turned around slowly and flinched when he saw Snape standing behind them. "Looking for something, are we?" Neville hoped that Parvati, Seamus, and Hannah were running back to their dormitories, and not running up here to fight Snape. _Please let them get away safely_, he thought, his minds resting on Hannah. And with that, he gave himself up to Snape. He knew there was no point in arguing.

Through everything that happened next – the lecturing, the beating himself up for not thinking of the possibility of an anti-Disillusionment Charm, the Crucio Curse delivered swiftly and multiple times throughout the night by the Carrows, and the punishment later in the Forbidden Forest with Hagrid, Neville kept his mind focused on Hannah's face, and her voice when she whispered, "Good luck." If he concentrated on that all year, it just might not be as long of a year as it was promising to be.


	7. Recipient: mustargirl1128

**Title:** Perfect Strangers

**Author: **?

**Recipient: **mustardgirl1128

**Character/Pairing: **Percy/Audrey

**A/N: **I don't want to say too much about how amazing you are, because that will give this away, but you are. This is my first time writing Percy and Audrey, but I had a great time writing it, and I hope you'll have just as much fun reading it.

Rated for language. :D

* * *

"Percy, get your arse out here now. You've got more bags under your eyes than Trelawney did, even If they're probably not as crack induced as hers." George landed on Percy's bed with a large crack, one that still wasn't loud enough to drown out the sound of his yelling.

"I am taking you to the pub, and you are going to get pissed," he said. "I'm sick of you sitting in your room."

"I have reports to write, George. The minister needs me."

"Like bloody hell he does. It's Friday night and the lights are low…" George hummed loudly to himself, although his impish grin gave away the fact that he was waiting eagerly for Percy to reply. "What?" he said finally. "It's a Muggle song I heard on Dad's radio thingy."

Percy just shook his head. Six months on, and he still couldn't reconcile this version of George with the one he'd known before the war. They still had the same sense of humour, the same cheeky grin and the same way of raising their eyebrows to note sarcasm, but... he shouldn't be the same. He should be different. Percy was different. Everyone else was different, except the person who should have changed the most of all.

"Come on, Percy," George pleaded again, making himself comfortable on Percy's bed; the quilt cover was now wrinkled, the pristine white stained with mud from his boots. Percy had come a long way from being the perfectionist that had walked out on his family – an injustice that still rankled, especially with Ron – but somethings still made him rather irritated.

"Fine," Percy said. "I will come, if, and only if, you leave me alone for half an hour to write this report, and you get your feet off my bed."

George nodded, and left the room with a loud crack. It was yet another example of how George seemed to be stuck in the past, and Percy didn't want to admit how much he hated seeing his brother on the path to self-destruction.

He picked up his quill and scribbled another sentence or two. Sometimes, it was just easier to ignore things by concentrating on his work, a skill which was certainly coming in handy lately.

--

The club pulsated with music and footsteps as people danced to the music. Percy sat at the bar and glanced awkwardly around, trying hard not to tap his fingers against the tabletop in time to the music. It was bad enough that he was left to sit alone at the bar while George flirted with several girls, all of whom seemed surprisingly at ease with the fact that he was missing an ear, without looking like he was actually enjoying himself. Percy envied George's admirers, in a way – their nonchalance was a result of not knowing the significance of George's scars, and the sadness that the war had brought, to not just the Weasleys, but the wizarding world.

"Do you object to Celine Dion, or the idea of dancing in general?"  
"Celine Dion?" Percy looked up to see someone sliding onto the stool next to him, earmuffs in hand. She was quite pretty, in an almost 'girl next door' kind of way, and it was amazing how quickly he identified with her – she looked completely out of place, and he'd always felt that way too.

Shaking his head slightly, he turned back to the conversation. Surely….

"You don't know who Celine Dion is?" she asked incredulously. "Titanic? _My Heart Will Go On? _Fucking sappy love song about a boat that crashed into an iceberg and a bunch of overdramatic actors that died?" There was a sharpness to her voice that surprised Percy; it was bitter, like tea.

"Never heard of it," he admitted, cursing himself. He was a wizard, and surely, this involved giving himself away. "Doesn't really sound like my sort of thing…"

Then again, he decided, listening to George tell the story of the time he and Fred had blown up the back offices of their shop with a rubber chicken, maybe not.

"Thank fuck for that." The words slipped easily between her lips, and he found himself staring at them, fascinated. They were perhaps a little too plump for his liking, but it was her voice he was most fascinated by, anyway. For all the obscenities and the laughter that came spilling out of her mouth, it was strangely ethereal. Percy usually hated contradictions, but he certainly didn't mind this one.

"You ever seen Romeo and Juliet? Leonardo was hotter in that, anyway…"

"Ah…" Percy had no idea how to respond. Despite being the son of a Muggle lover, he had no idea about the popular consensus on anything other than cars or the postal service… and, from the way his father spoke about it, it seemed like not too many people were happy about that. "No," he said finally. "Was it any good? And Leonardo's still alive?," he added curiously, seeming to remember the name from a Muggle Studies lesson on history. "I mean, immortality's not a big thing…"

"Of course Leonardo's alive." The first shrouds of suspicion filled her eyes, and Percy was tempted to call the barman over and drink himself out of his misery as she raised an eyebrow curiously. Even blind-drunk and armed with a handful of Canary Creams, he couldn't cause this much damage. "He's still only young, so why would he need to worry about immortality anyway? What did you think I was talking about, anyway?"

Percy sighed. "You're not talking about Leonardo DaVinci?"

The laughter spilled around him as Audrey fought to regain control of her body, which was doubled over. This was ridiculous – he never should have let George talk him into coming here, and he certainly should never have let his brother out onto the dance floor while he was left to fend off the inevitable questions about how thick he was.

Percy braced himself for the interrogation, but instead, Audrey just laughed. "Nice joke," she said. "I never would have picked you for the humorous type, judging by your attire." Not for the first time, her eyes roamed over his slacks, and he felt himself shivering under her gaze.

"Thanks." Even if Percy had been trying to make a joke, he didn't think it was honestly that funny, but maybe this girl was just the one with a strange sense of humour. After all, no one had taken an interest in him since Penelope, and that had fizzled out pretty quickly after they'd realised they only had Hogwarts in common.

"Come on." She stretched her hand out towards him, and raised her other arm in the direction of the door. "I'm craving a fucking Big Mac."

Percy raised an eyebrow. He wasn't entirely sure what a Big Mac was, but the connotation didn't sound too appealing. "I'm right thanks… I need to keep an eye on my brother, and I don't even know your name."

She smiled. "Audrey."

There was something warm and comforting about her smile despite her brazenness and he nodded. "Percy," he said quickly, offering her his own hand. "Nice to meet you."

She slapped it away. "Niceties are over," she said. "We're going for a walk."

--

It was strange, walking the Muggle streets at night. After so long locking the doors every night and casting protective spells over his flat, he still wasn't used to being out in the open after hours. A motorbike took off somewhere nearby and he quivered as the noise of its engine spread throughout the sky – some things, even now, were still taking a lot to get used to again.

Then again, Percy thought, it was even stranger to be walking the streets with this girl, enclosed in a kind of silence that didn't feel uncomfortable. There was a kind of natural ease about her, despite her abrupt nature – it was almost as though she had swallowed one of Fred and George's weird sweet inventions that could help control a person's mood.

In the end, it was Audrey – Percy rolled the name over his tongue, trying to fit it to her personality, and failing miserably – who spoke first.

"What were you doing out tonight?" she said. "Noticed you weren't drinking, which is a bit… pointless, really, when you're in a bar."

Percy sighed. How could he tell her that, in the last six months, alcohol had ruined Charlie and it was about to ruin George, and he wouldn't be surprised if it ruined their whole family? "I'm not really a big drinker," he said finally. "I was just there with my brother."

"The one with all the chicks. Dude, surely your brother's got better taste than a bunch of plastic."

"He's… upset."

"Oh."

Percy found that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn't relieved that they left it at that. The Ministry was too busy cataloguing evidence and reorganising the staff for him to talk to anyone there, and his family were no better – Ron and Ginny spent days on end just sitting in armchairs with Harry and Hermione, Bill spent all of his time with Fleur at Shell Cottage and Charlie had disappeared back to Romania, leaving him and George, who were possibly the most affected of all.

"Our brother – George's twin – he died."

"You're…you're kidding me. I'm so sorry." For someone who barely knew him, she really did sound apologetic – but maybe that was a reflex action, like everyone else?

"It's fine – we're all getting used to it now, except George."

"Have you tried counseling? My friend swears by it, but half the time I swear whoever she sees just dopes her up with alcohol and tells her to piss off and… shit I'm rambling, aren't I?"  
"Just a little," Percy smiled. How could he explain to her that this wasn't just a freak accident, a car crash or a severe illness, that too many people had died and there wasn't enough counselors for them all? "But, it's a bit more complicated than that." He braced himself, wanting to tell her so much, but so little at the same time. It struck him as weird, actually – he barely knew this girl, and yet he still felt as though he could confide in her. After Penelope, he certainly didn't believe in love at first sight, but maybe there was such a thing as trust?

"You probably remember all those bridges collapses and strange murders that went on about a year ago."

"Yeah." Audrey's eyes widened. "You're not saying he…?"

"Not exactly. They… they were caused by my kind of people. Well, not exactly _my _kind, but people that have the same abilities as me and George and my family."

"Don't think you can fob me off with that shit, Percy! I barely know you and you're already doing an Emmett in _Back to the Future III_. I know everyone heals differently, but that doesn't mean you can use it as an excuse to pull that sort of crap."

Great. More pop culture references. Either she made a living watching television or she just liked to name drop too much for her own good. If she wasn't so intriguing, and if he didn't find himself warming to her quite so much, Percy would think she was quite insufferable.

"Don't worry about it," he said finally, sensing she was waiting for him to speak. "It was stupid of me to bring it up."

"You bet it was – I don't know if you're shitting me or you're being serious, but either way I don't like it." She paused, although she was obviously still irate. "Wait… two minutes ago we were talking about how your brother died and now I'm yelling at you. That's a bit insensitive, hey."

"Yeah."

"Sorry."  
"It's fine."

And for once, Percy thought, it really was. Audrey made him feel as though the world could be okay again – he wasn't sure how she did it, but he liked the feeling. Gently, he smiled at her, and they turned around and walked in the direction of the bar again, because it seemed like the only thing to do.

--

The city grew quieter around them as the darkness faded away into the early hours of the morning. George was standing in a corner of the bar when they got back, his arms wrapped around someone's shoulders. For a moment, Percy thought of telling him to go home, but he couldn't bring himself do it – slightly self-destructive or not, at least he was smiling. Everyone healed differently, Audrey had told him, and they had forever to figure out the best way. They were the lucky ones.

Audrey smiled. She had a nice smile, he thought, sincere and genuine. It was so unlike those he received at the Ministry, all the condolences andwhat-do-I-say smiles, that he couldn't help but grin back.

"You wanna dance?"

"Not really." Apart from the occasional Ministry ball, Percy had never danced in his life – not that he really wanted to tell Audrey that.

"Why? You chicken shit?"

"Not really." Percy tried his best to look appropriately affronted. Nice smile and interesting sense of humour aside, this girl had no right to offend him. "It's just… not my thing."

Audrey rolled her eyes at him, the corners of her lips twitching upwards slightly in yet another smile. She was like Professor Flitwick, he thought as he tried to avoid shivering under her gaze – she never stopped finding the bright side in things. He liked that. After all the devastation he seen, the horrible sounds he'd heard, the amount of times he'd woken up screaming after Fred's face flashed through his mind, maybe he needed that, too.

"Yeah," Audrey said. "You look like the type that's more like likely to read an anthology about every Prime Minister in existence, actually."

"No," he replied, about to defend himself as George walked over, cutting in. The girl he'd been dancing with didn't seem overly disappointed, something that made Percy happier. He didn't want his younger brother dragging anyone else into the Weasley family mess.

"As his younger brother," he said, deliberately ignoring Percy's glare, "I do feel that's my duty to inform you that while he doesn't really like Prime Ministers, he does like reading about Head Boys."

George winced as Percy's hand barely missed the back of his head.

"Sorry Perce," he said. "Forgot you didn't like to be embarrassed in front of the ladies."

Even when he made a little bow in Audrey's direction, Percy just smiled. It was impossible to hate his brother, really – even when Audrey nudged him in the ribs and raised an eyebrow.

"Perce?"

"Yeah – after what you two did to Ron, I know what it's like," he replied, smiling. Really, there wasn't much else he could say and, if things went his way, they'd have a lot more time to talk about it, anyway.


	8. Recipient: TheWordFountain

**Title:** A Time To Laugh

**Author:** ?

**Recipient:** TheWordFountain

**Character/Pairing:** Ron/Hermione

**A/N:** More fluff than humor but I thought it was sweet. Hope you like it!!

* * *

"Mummy?"

"Mmmm?"

Hermione rolled over, trying to ignore the tugging at the corner of the duvet. Rose was up early again.

"Mummy?"

This call was louder. The duvet was pulled away from her even more and Hermione felt the bedsprings shift as her four-year-old daughter clambered onto the bed.

"Mummy!"

Much louder. Hermione opened her eyes, squinting in the bright, early-morning light.

Rose was knelt up, next to her on the bed, her pyjamas disheveled, and hair falling loose from its plait, frizzing around the top of her head.

"What is it, Rosie?"

"I woke up."

"I can see that. Rose, do you know what the time is?"

Hermione reached half-blindly for the clock on her bedside table. Half-past six. Wonderful.

Rose was tugging at her again. Hermione knew there would be no chance of getting back to sleep now, so she rolled over to face her daughter. Satisfied that her mother was finally paying attention, Rose sat back, slipping down into the thick duvet and pillows, spreading herself out across the empty half of the bed.

It wasn't usually empty, and most mornings (though not usually this early, Hermione reminded herself), Rose would hurry in to wake her parents before jumping up onto the bed and burrowing herself down in between the two of them. But it was different this morning. Ron wasn't there. He was away on a mission. One that Hermione didn't know the details of and didn't really care to know at the moment. She'd finished with that part of her life. She was pretty sure Ron had too, but he was still there, alongside Harry every day without fail. Hermione had given up wondering when he was finally going to quit and start working with George full time.

Most mornings though, Hermione and Ron would lie with Rose for half an hour or so before one of them bullied the other into going and dealing with Hugo once his gurgles or wails could be heard over the baby monitor (Ron had complained no end about the 'blasted thing', claiming they could just use a _Sonorous_ spell on Hugo's nursery and save the trouble of 'batties' but it had fallen on deaf ears. Hermione wasn't quite prepared to give up her Muggle world entirely).

The monitor was silent now. It would be another hour or so before Hugo woke, so Hermione settled back down into the bed, reaching out her arm to bring Rose closer.

"So, Rose, why are you up early then?"

Rose's voice was muffled by the covers, but Hermione could see her blue eyes peeping out from amidst the white linens.

"Had a funny dream."

"Oh dear. Well it's over now, Rosie – "

"Not a bad one, Mummy, a funny one."

Rose was completely gone from sight now, having pulled the cover right over her head. Hermione could still feel the warm heat from her daughter's small body though as she squirmed in her grasp.

"What kind of funny, Rose? Funny ha-ha or funny as in strange?"

Hermione was quite confident in the ability of her daughter to understand the question. Ron had already decided that Rose was going to take after Hermione, claiming he 'still had hope for Hugo yet.' Hermione rolled her eyes at the memory, as she reached her hand further round her daughter, tickling her quickly up the arm.

She could hear Rose giggling.

"No, Mummy, don't!"

But the plea held no desperation, only the breathlessness of a good feeling, and a protest intermingled with small squeaks of laughter.

Hermione smiled to herself, pulling the duvet quickly back, revealing Rose curled up, almost at her feet, hair even more awry, and a blush creeping up her cheeks.

"OK, I'm sorry Rose. Come on up here then and tell me about your dream. Was it funny ha-ha, or funny as in strange?"

Rose compiled now, crawling up so her head rested on the edge of Ron's pillow, tucking the duvet in under her chin, and turning to face her mum.

"Funny strange, but funny ha-ha too. It was about you and Daddy."

"Was it? What happened then, Rose?"

"It was silly. Daddy was on his broomstick flying and you were laughing at him."

"Really? Why was I laughing?"

Rose shrugged and looked up at her mother, her face scrunching up as she thought.

"Don't know, but there was a Hippogriff there too, and Hagrid was dancing with a House-Elf."

Hermione tried to repress her snigger.

"Really? That does sound funny."

But Rose was shaking her head.

"You and Daddy were funny though, more than Hagrid, 'cos you couldn't stop laughing and then Daddy started chasing you, but you didn't mind, and I liked that, and then we were all with Uncle Harry and Uncle Charlie and we were singing _Three Fluffy Owls_ and then I woke up."

Rose exhaled quickly and Hermione smiled at the story. She noticed Rose's eyes on hers and she settled down further onto the bed, stroking Rose's hair gently, knowing that there would be no way of taming it flat without at least a brush.

"Your Daddy has always made me laugh, you know."

"Mummy?"

"Yes, Rose?"

"Tell me about you and Daddy."

Hermione smiled slightly as she thought about Ron and everything they'd been through. Of course, the harder times were always going to be in the back of her mind, the sad and lonely memories, as well as those when Ron had been there for her, comforted her as well as the best times in her life, but she seldom thought back to those other times that she had just been happy. Not necessarily happy in a content way, but happy as in laughing. Ron always made her laugh, and she'd never really thought about those times properly before.

"OK," she replied, casting a quick glance at Rose, who was now listening intently.

"One time, your Daddy and I were outside in the garden at Granny Molly's house. It was just us there, it was before Uncle Harry had arrived for the summer, and your Granny Molly had Daddy mow the grass because she was so sick of it being long – "

"But it's long now, Mummy! I like it like that, it's like an expemtishon"

"Expedition?"

"Yeah."

Hermione couldn't help smile at her daughter's mispronunciation. She might be a clever little girl, but she was still only four, and Hermione liked it that her daughter still showed some of her baby traits. She knew she'd miss this time once Rose grew up. Of course, Hugo would still be a baby for a while yet, but there was something different about Rose. She had been her first baby, her little girl, and as much as Hermione loved Hugo, she knew it wouldn't be the same.

"Well, I think Granny Molly likes it like that too now, but before she was sick of it being long, and your Uncle Bill's wedding was coming up and it had to look pretty so she got Daddy to mow it for her, and I was outside too."

Rose's brow wrinkled in the same way it always did when she was thinking carefully.

"Why, Mummy?"

"It was a nice day, and I was doing dome reading."

"Oh."

Rose seemed at a loss as what to say, so Hermione reached out and brushed her hair back from her face, Rose squirmed away, a smile on her face.

"Well, do you know what your Daddy did to me?"

This time Rose turned back to look at Hermione, her small hands clutching the edge of the duvet tightly.

"What, Mummy?"

"He piled a whole lot of grass cuttings on my head. He'd finished and I hadn't noticed".

Rose was giggling softly.

"Then I threw some back at him and we ended up having a grass fight."

Upon hearing this Rose burst out laughing, her delight muffled by the duvet as she rolled over into it.

"I bet that was funny, Mummy."

Hermione smiled softly. It was nice remembering these times she'd had with Ron, and it was even nicer sharing them with Rose. Someday she dreamt that it would be Rose coming and telling _her_ about all the funny things she did with a future boyfriend. But that was a long way off, and Hermione felt silly for even considering it yet. Rose was only four. She still had a lot of growing up to do, it would be best to let her enjoy her childhood while it lasted.

Rose had settled down, and was staring back up at Hermione again. Hermione could tell she was about to ask for another story, so she sat up quickly; she could hear Hugo's gurgles through the monitor. He'd be awake soon, and although it was still a little early to be getting him up, Hermione wanted to shower and dress before she had to sort him out too.

"Not now, Rose," she said, smiling back at her daughter, as Rose continued to stare up at her with large eyes, "I'll tell you more later."

Rose sighed loudly, her too-long fringe blowing out slightly as she did.

"Why don't you go back to bed for a little while and read or something until breakfast?"

Rose rolled over, as if she'd suddenly realised how much space she'd been granted.

"Can I stay here?"

Hermione thought for a second. Usually, she wouldn't have approved of the idea of her daughter rolling about in a bed that had fresh sheets on yesterday (though Ron would always convince her otherwise someway or the other), but today she was feeling rather good, and so smiling in answer to Rose, she left to get ready.

***

It was a quarter to one when Ron finally got in. Hermione had put Rose to bed ages ago, and had just returned from settling Hugo again after his night feed. She was just wondering whether to do something useful like washing or cleaning, or just to give in and find a good book when she heard the tell-tale sound of Ron apparating into the garden.

He came in not minutes later, looking tired and ruffled, and Hermione smiled as she turned away from the bookshelf.

"Hey. Rough day?"

She walked over and wrapped her arms around him, and he returned the hug gratefully, sighing slightly as she lowered her head into his shoulder.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. You?"

Hermione looked up at him. She'd been quite ready to have a long-winded moan about what a difficult day she'd had too.

After the good start, the day had quickly deteriorated and she was quite ready to tell Ron all about it. About how Hugo had thrown up four times, twice on her and once all over Rose. About how Rose had started screeching in protest and had ended up throwing her dragon book across the room, knocking over the lamp, which set Hugo off crying. About how it took her two hours to quieten them both down, during which time there had been a succession of three owls which were still waiting for replies or payment, and how the Muggle milkman had accidently delivered twenty-four bottles of milk to the house. About how George had dropped off Roxanne and Fred, needing an emergency babysitter, whilst Angelina was on an away match and he had a problem at the shop, leaving her with a baby that was throwing up everywhere and three young children who somehow decided that it would be a good idea to make a fort out of all the bed clothes, plus the dirty washing, plus the majority of the pots and pans in the kitchen only to have it collapse spectacularly causing them to charge out into the garden and start playing in the flowerbeds whilst singing 'Weasley is our King' at the tops of their voices.

But seeing Ron now, none of it seemed to matter. Not just because his day had probably been just as bad if not worse, and that he was obviously hiding the fact from her, but also the face that it _didn't_ matter. It was life, and she had to deal with it. Plus, when Ron was there, it _didn't_ feel so bad anymore.

So she led Ron over to the sofa and sat down next to him, shaking her head.

"Oh, you know, the usual too."

Ron sighed again and looked across at her, a smirk growing on his face.

"You too, huh?"

Hermione nodded

"Yep."

"Shall we just forget about it?" Ron asked.

"Oh, please," Hermione replied half-heartedly. She shifted sideways, cuddling up to Ron as he wrapped his arm around her.

"I was talking to Rose this morning. She wanted to hear stories. About me and you."

Ron frowned.

"Really?"

"Yeah, she wanted to hear funny stories. She had a dream about us."

Ron raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah? What did you tell her?"

Hermione snuggled further into Ron's side and he rubbed her shoulder gently.

"About when we had a grass fight."

Ron sniggered and looked down at her.

"Oh yeah, I remember that."

Hermione rolled her eyes.

"It got me thinking, though," she said, staring up at him, "About how – " she sighed, trying to think of how to say what she wanted to.

"Ron, do you ever think that we don't have fun anymore?"

Ron's eyes widened.

"What you mean – "

Hermione sighed and thumped him with her free arm.

"Not like that! I mean have fun, have a laugh together. Don't you ever think that our lives have just become one long task?"

Ron was silent for a moment as he thought.

"It doesn't have to be."

Hermione frowned.

"What do you mean?"

Ron grinned and Hermione sat up slightly, still puzzled.

"I mean," said Ron, still smiling, "That it doesn't have to be a task. We can still have a laugh."

"You mean – "

"I mean, that I can still get away with doing things like this..."

Before Hermione could react, the pillow Ron had been holding in his free hand whizzed towards her and hit her right in the face. Hermione scrambled up ready to start shouting, but when she saw Ron's face she stopped herself.

"OK then," she said, smirking now as she got up off the sofa and grabbed a cushion herself.

"If that's the way you want it to be…"

They spent a good half hour fighting each other. There was still plenty of ammo left over from the children's fort and it turned into one of the fiercest matches Hermione could remember.

Eventually she flopped down onto the sofa, breathing heavily, trying to suppress her laughter. Ron collapsed next to her, sighing contentedly.

"Was that enough fun for you?"

Hermione rolled over, her giggles having transformed into the smile on her face as she leaned in to kiss him.

"It certainly was."


	9. Recipient: Kore of Myth

**Title:** Firenze's Divination  
**Author:** ?**  
****Recipient: **Kore of Myth  
**Character/Pairing:** Firenze/Luna

* * *

Firenze raised his head to the dark sky, seeking the stars that would be his guideposts for the next few months. Whereas he would normally turn to the north and search the heavens toward the land of his ancestors, tonight he turned to the south and sought the stars of the ancestors of men.

His own blood lineage had turned him away. They did not understand and were too stubborn to change their views of the heavens, resolutely turning to the north. They failed to see the shifting tides in the time of men and how the lines that ran to the north in the night sky would affect them and threaten them with extinction.

The stars moved so very slowly that it was easy to miss. Ever since this valley first shared its self with magical men, one centaur from each generation had followed the stars of the south. This was now Firenze's inherited duty. He knew that his future, and that of his people, was inexplicitly entertained with the future of the men. Now it was his turn to watch, wait, and be ready for the end of times.

He closed his eyes, seeing the stars, as they should appear on the inside of his eyelids. Opening them after a few moments, he compared what he knew with what he saw. He studied the vastness of space from Cassiopeia to Sirius, back to the farthest reaches of Adrastea, and saw the slight shift of alignment. A minuscule movement.

The universe with all its millions of constellations and billions of stars, each with its own planets and each planet with its own moons, now rushed to correct the imbalance Adrastea caused as it pulled away and changed the gravitational pull of the entire universe. He lowered his head and softy whinnied.

"A great storm cometh," he sighed aloud.

"Excuse me?" A soft, gentle voice answered from the edge of the wood. "Were you looking for someone to talk to, Professor?"

"Ah, Miss Lovegood, you should not be out at this hour," he said softly lowering his head and dipping one of his front legs to a formal bow.

"I often come here at night." She walked into the clearing and looked up to where he had been gazing. "Do you feel it too?"  
"Feel it Miss Lovegood?"

"The storm. You said a great storm is coming."

"Not in wind and weather Miss Lovegood. A different kind of storm."

"Yes, it would be. Harry feels it too you know. I imagine that is why he and the others ran off. He knows the storm comes close and hopes to stop it."

"Perhaps." Firenze turned his face again toward the heavens. "Perhaps it is his searching that will bring the storm quicker than I first thought."

"Not the search but the finding," Luna said wistfully. "If he searches in vain all will be for naught."

"The storm will come, Miss Lovegood, with the finding or without."

"Then it will be a matter of how the storm ends. I do like the ones that end with a rainbow suspended in the sunlight. Don't you?"  
Firenze lowered his head and looked at her quizzically only to smile at the intent expression he saw. "Yes, I do think that is preferable over flood waters."

"I don't think a flood can reach us up here," she smiled at him. "The valley is magical you know. Not just the castle, but the whole of it. That is why all sorts of wonderful creatures can live here."

"You have found these creatures? Tell me Miss Lovegood, what creatures have you found?"

"Only those that do not wish to be hidden." She tipped her head and looked at him openly. "Surely you have seen the Bangle-footed Toad and the Hissing Horn Bellied Snout?"

"No, I cannot say that I have, although I have heard they live here."

"More's the pity. They are quite lovely," she sighed. "I fear they will die if we lose this world."

"Even if the storm is fierce, and washes away our existence, the valley will survive."

Luna pondered this, bringing her brow together and pressing her lips tightly together, she slowly shook her head.

"We live here in a symbiotic relationship with all the rest. The Muggles have a term for it that is backwards you know. They say _Eco System_, as if the place supports the life and not the life supporting the place."

"You know this to be true?" Firenze smiled at her.

"Oh yes. It is obvious. Is it not? Why, if we are not here to see them they will no longer exist."

"If the tree falls in the forest with no one to hear does it make a sound?" he snickered.

"A sound is made when the wave lengths carried on the air hit the ear drum, so no, it would make no sound. Only the sound waves would survive." She said firmly, reaching up to twist her earring. "It will be the same if no one is here to see the Hissing Horn Bellied Snout."

"It is possible for those things that are no longer here to be seen. So, perhaps it is also possible for things here not to be seen unless they want to be," he smiled at her. "You make a fine point."

"Myrtle is no longer here, yet we can see and hear her. She is easy to understand," she sighed and put a hand to stroke the hair of his mane. "Yet Draco is here, he is not easy to understand and difficult to see."

"Difficult?" He lowered his head to put himself closer to her hand, yearning to feel the touch of another.

"Oh, you can see the face he wears like a suit of clothing to cover his nakedness, but not what is under it. I don't know what he looks like any longer," she sighed and peered into Firenze eyes. "Draco tries so hard to look like his father that he wears it every day."

"You do not think he is like his father?"

"Oh no. Myrtle would not talk to him if he were. And, since she is not here she can see the things that are being hidden."

Firenze looked at her blankly having lost his way in his conversation with her. He knew better then to try to have her explain.  
"Miss Lovegood, be so good as to look up at the stars, focus on Betelgeuse." He tipped her chin up and directed her face to see Orion. "Remember now, the left shoulder only."

Luna's eyes sought the star and finding it, focused on the reddish light as Firenze turned her head to capture the view.

"Keep your eyes on the star," he said softly, turning her head until he could see a golden reflection of the star in her eyes.

He wanted to divine her future. A skill not oft used in dealing with humans. The complete void of pigment in the centaur irises made reflection possible. He hoped that Luna's silvery blue-grey would be the same. He studied Betelgeuse in the face he held just below his own. He saw the rays of golden-orange light stretch out for its sister star, and the sibling slap it back.

"Beware of Bellatrix," he said, turning her chin back down and placing his head against her forehead. "The red of Betelgeuse will temper to golden if you do not fight. If you go willingly, there will be others there. They will benefit from your company. You can bring them great calm."

She looked at him tilting her head to the side, again putting her hand out to touch him.

"Will you call me Luna?"

"If you call me friend," he kissed her forehead in goodbye, knowing not to say more.

"Will it hurt?" she asked curiously.

"A little, more if you fight."

"Will my father be safe?"

"If you do not fight."

"Oh, that is fine then," she said wistfully. "I won't have to pack. That is a good thing, I do so hate to pack and say goodbye."  
Luna stepped back and turned to go back to the castle thinking to give Dobby instructions for leaving fish and seeds out for the Bangle-footed Toad in her absence.

"My friend?" she said lightly as she turned back to see him watching her intently. "Will you be here when I return?"

"Yes, Luna," he whispered softly. "All you have to do is look to the stars and I will find you. Look for Merope, in Taurus."

She frowned and slowly began to walk back to the castle, watching the ground in front of her. Stopping suddenly she lifted her head and smiled as the myth of Merope and Orion came back to her. _Perhaps the story will end better this time_, she thought.


	10. Recipient: Lady Altair

**Title: **Understanding

**Author: **?

**Recipient: **Lady Altair

**Characters/Pairings: **Percy/Penelope

**

* * *

I**

She does not understand him.

Perhaps she never would.

She likes him. She cares about him.

Maybe she even loves him, though she isn't quite sure about that yet. But she does not understand him.

Why did their relationship have to be a deep dark secret? Why did they have to sneak around and pretend and lie and prevaricate?

Penelope Clearwater is going out with Percy Weasley, and she doesn't care who knows it.

-

She does not understand him, he knows that. And there is no way he can explain in a way that would make her understand. He knows, because he has tried. Tried, and failed.

He likes her. He cares about her.

He thinks maybe he even loves her, though he is unfamiliar enough with such feelings about anyone who isn't family that he isn't sure about that.

He wishes he could make her understand the reasons behind his desire for secrecy.

She thinks it is just the twins, but it is more than that. (Though - Merlin knows - growing up with brothers like Fred and George meant that you did your utmost to keep anything personal private if you didn't want to be ribbed mercilessly about it.)

No, it is more than a desire to avoid the twins' teasing. Percy knows - hopes, at least - that what he and Penelope have is special. And having everyone know about it would spoil it, take some of the lustre off it for him. In time, maybe, when he is used to the idea himself, when every thought of Penelope as "my girlfriend" doesn't take his breath away and turn his ears the treacherous Weasley scarlet. In a while, when he is comfortable with the thought that he - Percy Weasley, the odd one out, the misfit, the oddity, who wants so much to be like his older brothers (or even his younger ones), but would never quite make it - has a beautiful, clever, funny, kind girl who had chosen him and wanted to be with him.

But not now. Not yet. Not till he was ready.

**II**

She does not understand him.

She knows he was pleased (well, "pleased" is an understatement) to be chosen as Head Boy. She knows he is ambitious, that his exam results and his job applications matter to him. She understands that. She is happy enough to be a Prefect herself (although she was more than a little relieved that Susannah Prendergast beat her to the post of Head Girl). And she has her fair share of ambition, although not the driving desperate need to succeed that Percy has. She knows he feels he needs to prove himself, and she can understand that.

What she does not understand is that his pride in being Head Boy and his ambition is so all-consuming that it leaves practically no room for anything else. No room for _her_. All she gets are snatched moments between classes or when they are supposed to be on duty; a shared desk in their Transfiguration class; and a grudging agreement that yes, he will go to Hogsmeade with her on Saturday, as long as they are back early enough for him to finish his Charms essay (that she knows for a fact he has spent five evenings on already).

It is not enough.

-

He knows she does not understand his priorities. She cannot see that he is working so hard because he has to. He could not live with himself if he let their relationship get in the way of his chances of a decent job at the Ministry. She cannot see that he is giving her what he can, that there will be more once exams are over and his future is secure.

He hopes that what he can offer her is enough, but he fears it is not. But it is all he can manage.

-

Their separation is messy and loud and comes to a head in the library of all places with a whispered row that quickly escalates to such an extent that Madam Pince comes within an ace of sending them both to their Heads of House to be disciplined.

Percy is so upset that he forgets to hand in his Arithmancy homework, and loses points for Gryffindor for the first time in his school career.

Penelope goes about the school with her head held high, and saves her tears for the privacy of her dormitory.

Neither of them understands how this went so wrong.

**III**

Two years later, almost to the day, Percy sees Penelope across a crowded bar in Diagon Alley and asks if he can buy her a drink. He is more than a little surprised when she says yes (on reflection afterwards, so is she). Within a week, they are a couple again, without either of them quite realising how it happened.

-

She understands him even less now than she did when they were at school. How could he have cut himself off so completely from his family? How can he be so utterly bloody-mindedly _certain_ that he is right and they are wrong? Godric knows, the idea of You Know Who returning from the dead fills her with terror, but if it _is _happening, she thinks the authorities should admit to it and prepare for it. As a Muggle-born herself (albeit from a family tree so filled with witches and wizards that her own early displays of accidental magic were met by her parents with resignation rather than surprise), she knows she will be in danger if the rumours are true.

But Percy will _not _believe them. He will not even discuss them, beyond spouting the official line that the Ministry is in control and that the _Ministry_ thinks that the stories are false. And to go along with that means denying his links with his family, cutting himself off, being lonelier than he has ever been in his life before. Penelope simply cannot understand how he can bear to do that.

-

He wishes he could make her see things as he does, to understand that he is doing the right thing. All she sees is how much he is hurting himself with his isolation from his family (and there is no denying that he is – he would never have thought it possible that he would miss them so much). And she half-believes the rumours and speculations about You Know Who's return, and – of course – she is scared. So would he be if he were Muggle-born and believed Dumbledore's line. He cannot make her understand that the Ministry simply would not lie about this, that she is safe, that nothing bad is going to happen.

He tries to reassure her, to look after her, to make her feel safe with him. But he cannot take her fears away. He wishes he could.

**IV**

She does not – cannot - understand him. Why can't he see the truth _now_? No one can deny You Know Who's return now, pretend it isn't happening. Suddenly defence and self-preservation are the official policy. But Percy will still not admit that he was wrong before, will still not talk to his family. He is adamant that the way Professor Dumbledore is dealing with this is wrong, that the Ministry way is the only way they can win this. He is hurting himself with his obstinacy and need to be right, and Penelope pities him. She seriously considers leaving him – does she really want to be with someone so utterly pig-headed?

But she loves him, she cannot pretend otherwise. And she sees how much he needs her, how hurt he is by his family's rejection of him at that disastrous Christmas visit, how shaken he is by the news of Bill's injuries, and then George's just a few weeks later. She sees that he is frightened. He needs her, and she cannot deny that she needs him, that he makes her feel safer, though she does not quite understand how.

**V**

As things get worse, he tries so hard to look after her, to make her feel safe, secure, protected. But there is so little he can do. She is Muggle-born, and that puts her in danger. He understands how scared she is; he is terrified for her himself.

He is so scared for her, that he scarcely has time to be frightened for himself. He is still toeing the party line, going along with the Ministry, being the good little bureaucrat. But now there is a hollow feeling inside himself when he realises how wrong the Ministry is, how wrong _he_ has been in the past. But he cannot get out now, it is too late. If he did, he would put Penny in danger as well as himself. He bides his time, and looks for his chance.

When the chance comes, he cannot tell her. She is with her Muggle relatives, living as a Muggle, with a new name, in a new place. They have seen each other rarely over the last few months, communicating by carefully-worded messages sent by the Muggle post, and once or twice by telephone. It is strange, but their forced separation has helped them to understand each other as they never have before, has brought them closer in an odd way.

But when the call to go to Hogwarts comes, there is no time to get a message to Penny by Muggle means, and an owl would put her in danger. There is nowhere safe he can leave a letter. If he does not get out of this – well, he hopes she will understand how much he loves her.

**VI**

She understands him so well now. Understands and pities him. She holds him when he cries for Fred, when he rages and rails against himself for the stupidity and pride that kept him away from his family for so long. She willingly takes a back seat as he moves back to The Burrow and begins to rebuild his shattered relationships with his parents and brothers and sister. She is there for him when he needs her, and she knows he will always come back to her.

They have been through too much for him to leave her now.

He is grateful for her understanding. She is the one person who really knows him, knows everything he has been through in the last few years, and still accepts him. Oh, he realises that his family have forgiven him, have welcomed him back in a way he knows he does not deserve, but none of them understand him as Penny does.

He could not do without her now.

**VII**

The day after Victoire is born, Percy proposes to Penny in the traditional way, with a candlelit dinner and red roses, and a diamond and sapphire ring that cost far more than he can afford.

She accepts his proposal. They have both known for a long time that this was where they were heading, and now is the right time for this. They know that they belong together forever.

No one understands either of them as they understand each other.


	11. Recipient: xoxcrescentmoonxox

**Title: **Keeping it Simple

**Author:**?

**Recipient: **xoxcrescentmoonxox

**Characters/Pairings: **Lily/James, the Marauders

* * *

"Y'know, she's changed quite a bit," James Potter murmured as he glanced down at the moving yearbook picture and back up at the curly-haired brunette sitting on Roland Wood's lap.

"D'ya mean in looks or in actions? I mean, we all know Brewer's always been a little flirty," Sirius Black muttered as he stared at the lollipop he was twirling in his hand.

James laughed at Sirius' joke and turned to Remus Lupin, another of their Marauders group, and smirked at Remus' contorted face.

"Very funny, Sirius," Remus muttered as he rolled up his used parchment.

"Yeah, I thought so," Sirius laughed tauntingly. "Remember when little greasy Adelaide Brewer would fawn all over you?"

"Don't be rude, Sirius. She was really smart and nice – still is." Remus stood up next to the coffee table and stretched with his back to the fire.

"Doesn't change the fact that she was greasy," James whispered to Sirius, which caused Sirius to grin.

He turned his gaze back towards Adelaide and squinted in concentration. A few years ago her hair seemed to be a dark brown, but over the years it had slowly grown much lighter. Her eyes were a bright blue and stood out on her face, which was extremely tan.

"What do you think?" James asked Sirius, noticing the way he had been staring at her.

"I think she looks like any other girl. Nothing special about her," Sirius said, trying to elude the real question James was asking.

"C'mon Sirius. You haven't liked a girl at all this year – and you almost never ask a girl out. Why don't you try it, just this once?" James pressed.

"It'd be good for you," Remus agreed.

"What would be good for whom?" Peter asked as he set down the large amount of pastries from the kitchen on the table.

"Don't you think having Sirius date would be a good for him?" James asked fervently.

Sirius rolled his eyes and adjusted himself in the red plush armchair so then his legs were hanging over one arm while his head rested on the other.

"Yeah. It'd be great!" Peter agreed. It wasn't really a surprise, of course. Peter agreed to everything.

Sirius quickly swung himself around until he was sitting up and leaning on his knees. "The only problem with you guys telling me this is that none of you have dated. I'm the only one. Who are you all to tell me who I should date and when? Did you guys ever think that maybe I really don't care for Brewer?"

Remus pursed his lips and Peter shuffled his feet.

"I've dated," James said indignantly.

Sirius shook his head and looked around the packed Common Room and found Susie Parker, a bushy haired blonde with glasses. "You've dated a total of one girl in this room – and you ditched her thirty minutes in to go follow Evans. That bloody well doesn't count and you know it!"

"Well, it's not as if you've got a good reason for not dating someone," James said, his voice beginning to falter.

Sirius grunted in reply and shrugged. There was no way he was going to admit exactly why he had given up on dating. Prongs and Wormtail wouldn't understand. Moony probably would, but he would never admit it. Instead, Moony would probably try to find a way to say that their situations _weren't_ similar; that a girl would marry into Sirius' family while, on the other hand, a girl would never ever marry a werewolf. And, to be honest, at this point most girls expected long-term relationships with marriage in the end.

"Nothing's ever stopped you before," Moony muttered. "What's stopping you now?"

"It's none of your business," growled Sirius. He pushed himself off the chair and stomped off towards the Portrait, leaving the Gryffindor Common Room. At a brisk pace, he began his walk down the many flights of stairs, knowingly taking the long way to the Entrance Hall instead of one of the many shortcuts he knew. Sirius was going to need a long time away from the other Maurauders – he needed time to himself.

Once Sirius reached the Entrance Hall, he was surprised to find that there were still quite a few people roaming around. Generally, most went to their respective Common Rooms by seven thirty, but it was now eight. Sirius gave a quiet groan and, with the idea of avoiding people, walked out the front doors of Hogwarts to the frigid leaf-infested grounds.

The doors clanged shut behind him and so he squinted and took in his surroundings. Growing up he had been the child that would quietly sit until he had gathered a sense of his surroundings, and would then present himself. At Hogwarts, he didn't use this ploy as much, but since Sirius needed alone time, this was the perfect opportunity. He needed to make sure he avoided where people were already, and that he kept a safe distance from anyone who would try to talk to him. There were only about ten people, of course, but you could never be too careful.

After Sirius had finished judging, he began to trudge over to the lake. Considering it was a breezy night, and the lake was icy, not many were willing to hang out by it. Therefore, it was the perfect spot for Sirius Black.

Upon arriving, he quickly went to the big willow tree on the lake border and found the perfect alcove for him to sit in and sulk.

"Aren't you cold?"

Sirius glanced up and a shiver went up his spine. It was Adelaide Brewer. He could've simply answered "no" as he wasn't cold in the special cloak he was wearing, but he didn't feel like being civil. "What's it to you? Did you follow me or something?"

Adelaide blushed and pushed her hair back self-consciously. "I don't know. Just a question."

After a few seconds of Sirius ignoring her and looking out at the lake, he was surprised to hear a rustle of leaves and looked over to where she had been standing before. This time, she was sitting and bundling herself up as best as she could in her cloak.

"Is there a reason why you're not sitting on Wood's lap right now?" Sirius snapped.

Instead of anger, like Sirius expected, Adelaide laughed. "Well – no, never mind," she said while shaking her head.

Now intrigued, Sirius flashed a sexy grin. "C'mon. It can't be that bad."

"I suppose it isn't," Adelaide agreed. "But I just – never mind."

Sirius gave a wishful sigh and leaned back into the tree.

"Er. Sirius," Adelaide prompted.

"What?" Sirius gave another smile, finding himself elated that she had said his name.

"I saw you when you left the Common Room. Why were you so upset?"

Sirius shook his head and gave her another smile. "Don't worry your pretty little head about it."

Adelaide smiled back. "Well, Sirius. If I didn't know you well enough I'd wonder if you were hitting on me."

"What does that mean?" Sirius slowly stood up, mimicking Adelaide's movements.

"It means that I _know _that you're hitting on me."

Sirius shrugged his shoulders, slowly beginning the walk up to the castle. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Adelaide scrunched up her nose, trying to hide a smile, and then consented to hitting him playfully on the arm. "C'mon, Black. You know I've always been a sucker for flirting."

Sirius laughed and began a fake yawn, stretching his arms and placing one arm around her shoulders so he could bring her closer. "Well, if I didn't know it before, I certainly found out when you were with Wood in the Common Room."

Adelaide laughed and slipped her arm around his back. "Roland wouldn't really let go of me to be honest."

"And what does that mean?" Sirius asked, surprised that she didn't seem to want to be with Nathan.

"Well, I don't like getting that physically close with someone unless I'm dating him," Adelaide said.

They were about halfway up the castle and it had taken a surprisingly short time, as it was now around eight fifteen, which many portraits pointed out obnoxiously. And strangely enough, the suits of armor had changed positions so they were leaning forward and yielding their weapons threateningly.

"So you've dated a lot," Sirius stated, trying to ignore how Adelaide squeezed him tighter as they passed the suits of armor and weapons.

"No," Adelaide dragged out.

Sirius shot her a surprised glance. "So you string along all those boys even when you don't like it?"

Adelaide blushed and brought her other arm around Sirius' stomach. "Well, there are some times when I like it."

"I certainly hope you haven't told anyone else about your dating policy," Sirius joked.

"Why is that?" Adelaide asked as she pulled away from Sirius. They were now in front of the Fat Lady, staring each other in the eyes as if in a showdown.

"Because then many will think that we are dating," Sirius said while waggling his eyebrows.

Adelaide shot back a smile. "Well, don't you want to?"

Sirius blew out hot air and mussed up his hair, the smile falling from his face. He had to admit he was surprised that she had asked him that. His first reaction was to say "yes", but he held back. Saying yes was the same as saying "yes, I'll condemn you to be related to my family who will probably purposefully hurt you and ruin your life" because, he had to face it, most girls were looking for long-term relationships. He didn't know if he could do that. Sirius hadn't admitted it, but he liked Adelaide the moment he saw her on the train at the beginning of the year, and he couldn't do that to someone he liked. It was like hurting her with his own hands.

Adelaide blushed and clasped her hands together, staring down at the floor. "I mean, we don't have to be serious. We could just try it out a-and see – we could just…"

Sirius breathed a silent sigh of relief and lifted her chin until she was looking him in the eye, and then softly grabbed one of her hands. This girl really was perfect – she wasn't expecting an everlasting relationship. "We could go on a date into Hogsmeade next week."

Adelaide slowly smiled. "Yeah. Sounds like a plan."


	12. Recipient: Qoheleth

**Title: **Lilies That Fester

**Author: **?**  
**

**Recipient: **Qoheleth

**Character/Pairing: **Lily/James

**Author's Note: **Qoheleth wanted a story based on Shakespeare's Sonnet 94, focusing on Lily, called Lilies That Fester. I hope I have combined these elements so that they resemble what he had in mind!

You know he's coming before he ever appears. You've developed a kind of sixth sense about James Potter, and it really bothers you. With the amount of time he spends deliberately invading your life, it is infuriating to you that he has come to invade your senses as well.

And the last thing you need right now is a confrontation with him, not on top of the day you've had. And so the moment you sense him coming, you clear off your library table and pack your bag, praying for an escape.

If you were a little less meticulous, you might have made it. But because you take the time to roll your parchment, to cap your ink and blot your quill on the stained spot of skin between your first finger and thumb, to pack your bag carefully and push in your chair, you haven't quite made it behind the nearest bookcase when he saunters around the corner.

"Leaving so soon, my fair Lily-flower?"

Your back is to him, so you don't have to hide your irritated grimace. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from snapping that one, you aren't _his_ anything, and two, even if you were, you certainly wouldn't be his "fair Lily-flower." It would be so easy to snap at him, so easy to take the anger and frustration of the day out on him because even though he may not have done anything in particular to you today, he's done enough in the past. It would be so easy - but no. Not today. Not now. Now you say nothing, just hitch your bag a little higher on your shoulder and continue on your way out.

If he had only let you go. But instead, he moves so that he's blocking your path, a solid mass standing directly between you and the exit. So you press your lips together tighter, still silent, and try to shoulder your way past him. But he is bigger than you, and broader, and your attempts to get by are in no way effective.

And so you're stuck. Stuck because of James Potter, in a way you have been for the five and a half years you've known him.

It would be so much easier if you could just hate him. You wish the situation was that straightforward. You wish you could just hate him. There is so much about him to hate. He is the worst kind of bully. He is arrogant, disrespectful, offensive, and chauvinistic. He has humiliated and demeaned you on pretty much a weekly basis in one way or another for the past five and a half years, and you are far from being the only one. He gets pleasure out of making others suffer. He thinks he can get away with anything, thinks life is some kind of game, and seems incapable of taking anything seriously. There is so much about him to hate.

But you can't hate him. Not entirely. Because of the other moments. You can't hate him entirely because you've seen him when he thinks no one's watching. You've seen him take a poor, shabby bookworm, a socially awkward and inept bumpkin, and a pureblood outcast under his wing and make them his closest friends while simultaneously ridiculing those who don't fit in as he decrees they should. You've seen him lay conjured blankets around the same exhausted first years he'll humiliate publicly two days after their exam is finished. You've seen him lead girls on in one moment, and hex a guy into the Hospital Wing for talking badly about them the next. And worst of all, though you didn't _see_ it, you know that, only a few months ago, he saved the life of one of the people he hates most in the world.

It makes no sense, and you _hate _it, but you can't hate _him_ because every once in a while, this decent person shines through. And in a lot of ways, that just makes it all worse. Because while he's off making a complete arse of himself and enjoying every miserable second of it, you stand there and see what he _could_ be doing. And today is shaping up to be no different.

"Excuse me, Potter," you all but growl, refusing to make eye contact, but instead of complying, he just takes a wider and firmer stance and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Well, just a minute now, there, Lily," he says in a tone that ranks right up there in your books with teeth on fork tines and nails on a blackboard, and it's all you can do not to cringe away. You look desperately to the front desk for any kind of assistance, but of course there is none. Madam Pince has been called away to some other duty for the moment and the library desk sits empty, deserted, and of no help to you whatsoever. "It pains me to see you spend so much time hunched over desks, absorbed in meaningless, dreary tasks set by out-of-touch professors who haven't seen a good time since the turn of the century."

"Then my attempt to leave the library should be taken as an encouraging sign," you snap. He gives you a wide smirk, and you wish you had just held your tongue.

"Well it would be," he says, and oily is the best way to describe his voice, "if I didn't know that you were just going to disappear into your dorm and work away into the night. It's a shame, really. I'd like to help you do something about it." And he reaches out and brushes your elbow, and that's the last straw. You snap your arm violently out of his reach, and he's tensed and waiting for your comeback, you can see it in his face, but you're past a comeback. It's too much, all of it, and you have to get out.

"I can't do this right now," you say, and shoulder your way past him, and because he's so shocked at your response, you're actually able to, and you manage to make it out of the library and a few steps up the corridor before he catches up to you and blocks your path once more.

"What was that supposed to mean?" he asks, and his tone is different now, not oily, but arrogant and disdainful, as if he's mildly insulted that you failed to live up to his expectations. And it's underlined, all of it, by the tiniest note of concern, which is almost more infuriating than everything else. And so, instead of continuing to walk away, you answer him.

"This!" you say, spreading your arms wide. "This, Potter. Where you come in and are your usual offensive and disgusting self, and we go back and forth and back forth until I am so worked up I can't see straight! I can't deal with that today, I can't deal with _you_ today, not on top of everything else, so for once in your life, I am begging you, listen to what I'm saying and leave me the hell alone!"

You hadn't meant to say all that, but everything that's been building all day just came out of your mouth as soon as you opened it, and you couldn't stop the words or the emotions they brought with them, and so by the time you're finished speaking, you are infuriatingly on the verge of tears. And _now_ you continue your way up the corridor, or you try to, but James Potter has switched into his chivalrous mode, and he's not about to make escaping easy for you.

"What happened?" he asks, and his voice is different yet again, and now it's that voice you hate the most, worse than the oily one, worse than the arrogant one. It's the voice that something inside you wants to trust. It's the voice of the decent James Potter, and for one wild moment, you want to tell him everything. You want to tell him about being cornered in the dungeons by a group of blood-obsessed Slytherin thugs, about being slammed into a wall and threatened with a wand against your throat while your former best friend stood by and let it happen. You want to tell him that you were too petrified and immobilized to reach for your wand or think of a spell. You want to tell him that if Slughorn hadn't come around the corner, you don't know what might have happened.

But then you remember that this is _James Potter_, and he doesn't have the right to know any of that. He doesn't have the right to be concerned about you, and most of all, he doesn't have the right to make you feel those things.

"Nothing happened," you snap, trying yet again to escape, but he lunges forward and captures you around the wrist. You spin to glare at him as mild panic rises inside you.

"What happened?" he asks again.

"Let go of me!" you growl, trying to pull away.

But it's too late. The long sleeve of your robe rides up, and he sees them. The dark, fierce bruises you've been feeling forming all day. You can see his fury even though his eyes never leave the skin of your arm.

"Who did that to you?" he asks, his voice quiet and dangerous, and this is a James you've never met before, and you're not sure it's one you want to know. You snatch your arm away and pull the sleeve down again.

"No one did anything to me," you say, but you know it's not convincing, and you know that James Potter is smarter than that.

"Who did that?" he asks again.

"I told you. _No one_," you insist. "It was an accident."

"An accident?" Now that quiet and dangerous voice is directed at you, slightly louder, slightly more angry. "It was an _accident_ that someone grabbed your arm so hard you bruised?" he demands. You glare at him.

"Yes."

"Tell me who it was." It is a command, imperial and demanding, and it leaves you incredulous.

"So you can do what?" you ask him. "Run off and defend my honor? I can take care of myself, Potter."

"Clearly," is his sarcastic response.

"If all I got from them was a couple of bruises on my arm, I'd say I did fine!" you say defensively, but the moment the words are out of your mouth, you know you've made a mistake.

"Them?" he repeats, ignoring the rest of what you said in light of that information. "There was more than one?"

You press your lips together and take a deep breath, determined not to give him anything else. "This is none of your business," you tell him, and you try to walk away, but you should have known it wouldn't work.

"None of my business?" he asks, reaching out to stop you once more with a hand around your wrist. But you notice that his grasp is gentle. You notice that he's taking extra care not to hurt you. You don't want to notice, but you do.

"It is none of your business," you say again, trying to make your voice firm and hard, but you're failing and you know it, and it may be that frustration that causes you to snap your wrist from his grasp as violently as you do. And you think he looks hurt for the tiniest moment, but then it's gone, and the anger is back, and now it's directed at you.

"Was Snape a part of this?" he asks. "Is that why you won't tell me?" In a strange, bizarre way, you're grateful for the accusation because it brings back the James Potter that you can hate without any trouble at all. It makes it easier to get on footing you're more familiar with.

"No," you say frostily. "But thank you so much for bringing him into this."

"Well, I'm pretty sure he was in it already, but if you don't want to tell me, that's fine," he says, his tone suddenly bitter and sarcastic.

You stare at him in disdainful disbelief. "You know, your jealousy of him is really -"

"I am _not_ jealous of him!" he interrupts violently, sounding disgusted by the mere accusation, but you know the truth.

"Yes, you are," you say, knowing you've gained the upper hand and having more confidence for it. "You're eaten alive by it. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is?" He presses his lips together tightly and doesn't answer. "You really are a piece of work," you say, letting your contempt shine through. "_You_, James Potter, are jealous of _him_. And you want to know why?" He doesn't answer, but you knew he wouldn't. "Because he's managed to get the one thing you can't." You practically spit that last at him, and you're about to throw at him the one thing he'll never manage to earn when he speaks.

"You cannot be about to stand there and _defend_ Severus Snape," he says with contempt. "Not after what he did to you. Or do I have to remind you?" And that really is the last straw for you. That's really all you can take.

"I think I remember what happened between myself and Severus, Potter, having been there for it. In fact, I'm pretty sure I know what happened better than you do, and, you may have noticed, I'm no longer friends with him as a result. But don't you _dare_ stand there and tell me who I am or am not allowed to defend. Don't you _dare_." Common sense is telling you that you should stop, just leave it and walk away. But you're past the point of listening now. There are too many things that have been waiting too long to be said, and they will not be stopped, not by you, not by him, not by any power on earth.

"I will defend Severus Snape until the day I die because he was my best friend for seven years. Long before I got my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. I was a _Muggle_, and he was my friend. And when we got here, and we were Sorted, and I was a Gryffindor and therefore his enemy, he was _still_ my friend. For five years, in spite of his friends, in spite of mine, and in spite of everyone telling us it was wrong. Five years he lasted in the face of that, and if he eventually gave in, it was because going against public opinion takes a stronger person than Severus Snape. For Merlin's sake, _you're_ terrified of doing it! He did the best he could, and what happened was inevitable. Do I hate it? Yes. Do I wish things had ended differently? _Yes_. But despite what you may think, Potter, Severus Snape is _not_ the worst kind of person in the world. That's _you_."

You have more to say, but you don't want to say it. You want to be done with this conversation. You want to be out of this situation. More than anything, you want to be away from _him_.

And you try. You _try_ to get away. But he's there. And he's angrier than you've ever seen him, and it's directed at you, and you can't escape.

"You don't get to say that and walk away," he says, his anger turned quiet and hard, and this is the most serious you have ever seen James Potter. "You don't get to make that accusation and then leave. You're going to call me something like that, you damn well better be prepared to explain it. You damn well better be prepared to tell me how I am worse than _Severus Snape_."

"Because you could be so much better!" It's not the answer he was expecting, and you can tell he's taken aback by it. You close your eyes so you won't have to see his face for reasons you don't want to think about. But after you take a deep breath, you force yourself to look him in the eye because if you're going to do this, you're going to do it to his face. "You could be so much better than what you are," you say, and your chest is tight and your voice is full of emotion, and you didn't realize until this moment just how much what you're about to say has been pushing at you, waiting to get out. As you speak to him, you have never been more in earnest in your life. You have never more needed a person to listen to you.

"You are smart and clever and dedicated and capable," you tell him. "You have the talent and the power to do something _real_. To make a substantive difference. To help hold together a world that is falling apart at the seams. You could lift people up and give them hope, and instead you cut them down and make them think they are _nothing_. You could fight back some of the darkness in this world, and instead you add to it. You could help people, and instead you only hurt them. And you don't even care! It doesn't even matter to you! But it matters to me."

Your voice changes then. It had been pleading and desperate, but now it hardens. This is the most important thing you will ever say, and somehow, you know it. You lift your chin and look him straight in the eye. You are going to force him to listen to you if it kills you.

"It matters to me," you repeat. "I look at you and see what you _could_ be. And then I see what you _are_ and it kills me! You could be so much better! You could be so much more than what you are! I've seen it! You could be a person I respected. A person I cared about. A person I cared _for_. But you _won't_. And that's it, James." He had looked away some time ago, a muscle in his jaw twitching with the effort of keeping his teeth clenched together, but now, at the sound of his name, his head turns back to you, his eyes meeting yours once more. You deliver the final blow.

"You could be so much better," you tell him, your disgust with him coming through. "You just _won't_. And that makes you ten times worse than he ever could be." You have to pause before you take the final word, to swallow the lump of emotion that has risen in your throat. You turn away for just a moment to compose yourself before meeting his eyes for the last time and choking out, "It _kills_ me."

You can't hold back the tears anymore, so you leave him standing there and hurry away up the corridor, expecting at any moment to feel a hand around your wrist, him holding you back once more.

But it doesn't come. And you don't look back. You can barely see the halls through the film of tears in your eyes, but you make it all the way to Gryffindor Tower, all the way up the girls' stairs and into your dorm before they fall. And he doesn't stop you. He doesn't come after you. And you don't understand it because you don't understand _him_, but at the moment, it doesn't matter.

Your room is deserted, for which you are eternally grateful, as it means you can just collapse on your bed and hug your pillow to your face and let go. You cry until your eyes are swollen and your throat aches, until you have no more tears to squeeze out. You're crying for him, and for all the people he's hurt, and you're crying for you, but most of all, really, you're crying because you're half in love with him and there. You've admitted it to yourself, something you've known for quite a long time now. And it really bothers you, that you have fallen halfway in love with someone so horrible, but you can't change it. You've tried. And you _hate_ it, and you want to hate him, but you can't.

But you do know, without a doubt, that until he changes, no one else will know. You won't let them. And so, you believe that it will be kept hidden forever, because he will never change. Never.

You're able to believe this because you didn't see his face. You're able to believe it because you didn't turn back to look at him when he didn't follow you. If you had, you would have seen something extraordinary. If you had, you would have seen the look on his face, and you would have known that somehow, this time, he heard you.

In the weeks and months to come, every time he starts to speak, every time he starts to act, he will hear your words and he will stop, seeing himself and his words and his actions through your eyes. Your words will change him. It will take time, but before a year has passed, he will be almost completely unrecognizable. Before a year has passed, he will be a completely different person. He will come to live his life so that he might make the world better for the people around him. He will spend every waking moment trying to atone for the damages he and his friends have done. He'll think at first that he's doing it for you, but as more and more time goes by, he'll realize that he's doing it for himself. And what's more important, he's doing it for them, because it's the right thing to do.

In less than a year, he'll be named Head Boy, just as you'll be named Head Girl. He'll start the year by apologizing to you, in his way. You'll tiptoe around each other at first, but eventually you'll become friends, and then close friends. And by the time the year is halfway out, you'll be all the way in love with him because there will be nothing left to hold you back. In little more than a year from now, you'll be dating him, and you'll be the happiest you've ever been, despite the threat of darkness that will loom over your lives, and the fight that's becoming very, very real. But you'll know that with him by your side, you can get through anything.

But right now, you have no way of knowing any of this. Right now, you believe he will never change, that he's incapable of it. You have no way of knowing what the next year will bring. And so, right now, as the room grows darker and darker as the sun sets, you curl up on your bed, holding your pillow close to you as a few more tears leak from your eyes, and you mourn the loss of what never had a chance to be.

_For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;  
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds._


	13. Recipient: Deluxe Sugar Quills

**Title: **Hannah Abbott

**Author:** ?

**Recipient: **Deluxe Sugar Quills

* * *

Feeling a little nostalgic, Hannah crossed the lawns of Hogwarts in the setting sun. It was her birthday today; almost her last one at Hogwarts. She could remember her first year, how young and cheerful everyone was, just as she remembered how she thought she wouldn't be here this year for it what with her mother's death and the Dark Lord's return. _But,_ she thought, shivering a little as she tugged her jumper sleeves down on her arms, _that wasn't something to think about tonight._

By now she was on the brick path leading to Professor Sprout's office. Pushing a strand of hair behind one ear, she opened the door to Greenhouse Seven. Back in the common room, she knew her fellow sixth years would have rushed up from dinner to put up streamers and set out squashy cakes and butterbeer from Hogsmeade; that was what they did on everyone's birthday. It was Hufflepuff tradition; just as it was Hufflepuff tradition for the celebrating Hufflepuff to walk down to see their Head of House after supper, thus giving the rest of the year a chance to prepare.

"Professor Sprout?" she called, stepping into the humid building. The setting sun silhouetted all the plants and made it hard to see. However, it was quite plainly empty.

Hannah strode down the aisle and past the wooden divider into Greenhouse Six; also empty. But just as she was about to enter Greenhouse Five she heard soft humming as feet padded over the brick floor-not brisk steps like her teacher's, but slower; almost a shuffle. She peered around the door to see Neville Longbottom leaning over a bed of drooping purple plants, crooning words she recognized from an old Helinda Bayliss and the Warlocks song that her mother would always play.

_"And when I'm alone, I fe-el so-o strong,_

_Heart tucked away, my, troubles ar-re go-one."_

Hannah smiled, a contented glow spreading through her. Music was something she loved, in any form. That was a part of her she didn't mention often, for outside of those in her own home, she knew few Hufflepuffs who shared her tastes. But something in the way notes changed pitch so quickly, the way harmonies would join together, and the way it so effortlessly surged from fast to slow touched her; allowed her to forget the world for a little while.

She sang quietly under her breath with Neville.

_"If only this marvelous fe-eling would la-ast,_

_Could stay away from the unsettlement of the ma-a-a-ass."_

He started humming the rest of the song and Hannah slid down the wall between the two greenhouses, tipping her head back and letting the music caress her. Neville's wasn't a particularly beautiful voice, but it was a nice one; so low and resonating. She lost herself in the rhythm of the music combined with the sounds of dirt pouring, clippers snipping, and plants rustling. In fact, she was only dimly aware of his footsteps approaching Greenhouse Six a couple minutes later, and so found herself startled when the door flew open.

"Sorry!" she cried, jumping to her feet and brushing off the back of her skirt. Looking into his eyes, Hannah suddenly realized she'd spent the past twenty minutes listening to an almost stranger, someone she'd only spoken to about four times in six years, even with the DA and all the classes they shared. And now she'd gone and intruded on something private; an extra thing he was doing alone. He obviously hadn't thought anyone was listening; might even be hurt that she had.

"Sorry," repeated Hannah. "I just-well, it's my birthday."

She broke off there, forgetting Neville wasn't Hufflepuff and would have no idea about their houses' tradition for celebrating. "Happy birthday," he said with a bemused smile as he twisted one of the tendrils hanging off the plant he was carrying around his finger.

"Thanks," she said. "Right, see, we-Hufflepuffs-always come down to see Professor Sprout after dinner on our birthdays-that's why I was here."

Neville shrugged. "It's okay. I don't mind, not really. I come down here all the time in the evenings, but the plants aren't always the best company."

She nervously shifted her weight to the other foot, saying the first thing that popped into her mind. "I know what you mean. When, uh-when my mum died, I would to go out every evening and sit under the weeping willow tree that's in the marsh near my house, and-well, it listened. But it never talked back."

Neville gently set the plant down on a wooden shelf. "That's right; I remember you left at the beginning of the year. It's good you came back."

"So I've been told," she said with a smile, then, afraid she sounded too cheeky, added, "I almost didn't. My father wanted me to stay home for a while, and I sort of did too. But then I thought about everything I'd miss here."

The boy rubbed his hands together nervously. "Sorry, I hope you don't think this is weird, that we're talking about something like this when we've barely met each other. But, you know, us DA members have to stick together."

Hannah shook her head. "It's okay. 'Cause we do. Have to stick together, that is. That's something I was really lonely for at home; all the constant companionship of being away at school . . . you never realize how used to your dorm and year mates you are, until you're away from them. Like, I have a brother and a sister, but that's suddenly not enough after being at Hogwarts."

"I know," Neville said. "I live with my Gran, and the summers are always really solitary seeming after spending eight months sharing a room-basically a life-with Harry, Ron, Seamus, and Dean."

Neville and Hannah looked at each other with slight surprise as Neville voiced both of their thought. "Well," he said. "I guess there is someone who understands."

The girl twisted one finger through the strands of her plait, wondering briefly why it was the Neville lived with his grandmother at all. She started to voice it as a question, but had only taken in breath and begun to make a "whuh" sound when she stopped short. "Never mind," Hannah said in response to his questioning look. "I was going to ask-but like I said, never mind."

A shudder, albeit brief, ran over his body, and Hannah had a nagging suspicion that he knew exactly what she was going to ask. She was grateful, however, that he didn't press any further. It was a question for another time, and she wasn't sure she wanted at all to know the answer yet.

Although, she decided, he was probably just as glad that he didn't press, depending on the reason he lived with his Gran. After all, she wasn't a stranger anymore to difficult questions about family that you just couldn't answer.

Neville pulled her out of her thoughts with a question of his own. "Hey, do you still want to find Professor Sprout?" he asked. "I could walk you down to her office; I should tell her I'm finished with this plant anyway."

She looked out the window, noting that dusk had transformed into night and her year mates would be almost definitely be ready for her by now. Even so, she was enjoying Neville's company greatly.

"I'll walk down with you," she said. "Although I spent the time I would have been talking to her talking to you."

He shrugged. "Well, I don't particularly need to see her tonight either. I'm ready to just head up."

She followed him down the walkway, into Greenhouse Seven, and back out the door into the night. Both of them were quiet on the walk across the lawn to the castle, but around them the grounds spoke volumes: crickets chirped softly, a light breeze rustled through the trees, and their shoes swished through the dew flecked grass. Once they got inside the Great Hall, the two paused.

"Hufflepuff's this way," Hannah said, pointing to one of the corridors branching out along the side of the wide hallway.

Neville nodded. "I'll head over to Gryffindor then, you probably want to get to your party."

They parted; him moving straight as she turned left. But upon reaching the door that led out of the Great Hall, Hannah turned around just in time to watch Neville take the last couple steps before turning down another corridor. Floating back to her came the strains of Neville's voice softly singing another Helinda and the Warlocks tune her mother had loved:

_"When the moon of sad and so-orrow sets, prepare for wonders around the-e bend . . ."_

She hummed with him, imagining that it was her mother and father singing together the last line:

_"For nothing lasts fore-e-ever, and the joyous sun will ri-ise aga-ain."_'

Neville's voice faded out as she hummed the last part herself. The castle grew silent again, save for the squeaks and rustlings of it's age.

And yet, there on the wind came a whisper; a remembrance of times long past.

"Happy birthday, darling."


	14. Recipient: Bad Mum

**Title: **Full Circle  
**Author:** ?  
**Recipient: **Katy/Bad Mum  
**Character/Pairing**: First Order- Gideon and Fabian Prewett  
**A/N: **I couldn't find a ton of information on the Prewetts, but I love them and they're Weasley, so I hope you like it, Katy! (If not I can do a rewrite for you .)

* * *

"All right, let me get this straight," he said quietly. "You want to what, again?"

"I want to get married," Molly said firmly. Gideon Prewett looked in shock at his older sister before exchanging a glance with Fabian. The two of them were sitting together at the Prewett family kitchen table, and Molly was sitting across from them, looking firm. Gideon took a deep breath as Fabian began to speak.

"Molly, you're not even out of Hogwarts yet." He glanced into the sitting room to make sure his mother was still occupied by the Christmas tree. "Seventh years aren't already planning their _weddings._"

"Why not?" Molly asked indignantly. "Just because most students aren't interested in a long term relationship doesn't mean Arthur and I can't have one."

Gideon shook his head. "Molly, he's a boy. A _teenage_ boy. He'll just be distracted by the next bird that comes along."

"We're all hormones and no brain," Fabian added. He looked seriously at Molly. "You told us that, you know."

Molly sighed and put her head in her hands. "Listen," she finally said. "I know you two are looking out for me. But I also know Arthur and I can make this work." She looked up, and her eyes were alarmingly bright. "I _know_ it. And anyways, I told you two about this to get your support, not to argue with you about it."

Her younger brothers shared a glance. As sixth years, they really had no idea what to say to make their sister see sense. Fabian finally stood.

"I'm going to my room," he said, before quickly hurrying to his room. Gideon looked worried and followed his brother up to their room as Molly sighed and went back to the sitting room.

"Fabian?" Gideon asked softly, pushing the door open. "You're okay, right?"

Fabian was sitting cross-legged on his bed, an old book open in front of him. It looked like one of their books from when they were kids- a sign of how worried he was. Fabian nodded.

"I'm fine. Just a little overwhelmed. I didn't think we'd be losing her so soon." Fabian sighed and flipped the page. Gideon wondered idly if Fabian was even reading, but was more distracted by Fabian's words.

"We're not… losing her. I mean, blood is thicker than wedding bands, right?" he pointed out. Fabian shrugged.

"It still won't be the same."

"There's a war coming," Gideon said softly. "Can't you tell? Nothing's going to be the same."

Fabian sighed but nodded at the same time. "I know. All the more reason to worry about her."

Gideon sat down on his own bed. "But we're the little brothers," he reminded his twin. "What can we do?"

"Watch out for her anyways," Fabian said firmly. "Listen, we'll be of age in a month or two, right? And I've been hearing rumors about this new group, called the Order of the Phoenix, from Hagrid and some of the older kids…"

Gideon looked interested, and Fabian added, "That Arthur Weasley kid wants to join, I've heard. But no one seems to know much about it. It's pretty secretive. It's supposed to be a defensive group against that new Dark Lord. "

"Well, that's it then," Gideon said decisively. "We'll join as soon as we turn seventeen. And that'll be how we protect Molly."

))((

The next two or three months were painful. The twins were dying to turn seventeen. When they did, they were going to find someone from the Order and join. Molly, after swearing the two to secrecy, had told them that she and Arthur were getting married the month after they got out of school. Gideon had told Fabian that they would need to be members by then.

In the meantime, school kept them busy as usual. The two pranked and flirted with all the girls they could get their hands on. In the meantime, they studied, played Quidditch, and spied on their sister.

She and the Weasley boy went everywhere together, Gideon and Fabian soon noticed. He was always next to her- holding the door, carrying her books, lacing their fingers together and, once or twice, snogging in small, empty corridors.

Finally, after long months of waiting, summer break came, and Molly, Gideon, and Fabian got on the Hogwarts Express leaving Hogwarts behind. Molly smiled at her brothers from the platform at school but was tugged onto the train by one of her friends, followed by Weasley. The twins looked at each other sadly and then got on the train, conscious that there would only be a month or so before they lost their sister forever.

On the train, they sat across from each other in an empty compartment. Outside, they heard the four Gryffindor boys who called themselves the "Marauders" banging around and grinned at each other.

"They're crazy," Gideon said proudly. "Their kids will be the biggest trouble makers in the school."

Fabian laughed. "Right after ours." He looked thoughtful. "I bet Molly's kids will be stick-in-the-muds, though."

"Probably," Gideon agreed. "Right, so we turn seventeen in three days. I owled a few seventh years I heard talking about the Order, and they told me to go to Dumbledore."

"Did you?" Fabian asked. Gideon nodded, pulling out a letter from his robe pocket.

"Yeah. And he says that there _is_ such a thing as the Order of the Phoenix. He said as soon as we're of age, we're to owl him and he'll talk to the current members about letting us in." Gideon sat back.

Fabian pursed his lips. "And we'll be fighting?"

"Nah, things aren't that bad yet," Gideon sighed. "Luckily. The Order is just there as a… preemptive measure, I suppose."

There were no more words exchanged between the two. There was nothing else to say.

))((

Three days later, Gideon and Fabian woke up in their beds at the Prewett household and looked straight at each other before glancing at the clock.

"Oh my gosh," whispered Fabian. "We're of age!"

"_Finally_," gasped Gideon.

"Morning, boys! Happy birthday!" Molly cried.

She burst into their room with a plate of muffins in her hands and a box tucked under each arm. She flopped onto Gideon's bed and put the plate on the nightstand between the two beds. "Want your presents now?"

The two looked at each other and then nodded. "Sure, Molly," Fabian answered. "Which one's mine?"

"This one," Molly said, handing him on box. "This is Gideon's."

Both boys opened their boxes to reveal gold watches. "Oh, Molly," Gideon smiled. "Thank you!"

Molly blushed. "You're welcome. I'd totally forgotten that an of-age wizard gets a watch- I was going to get you new Quidditch gloves. Arthur reminded me."

Fabian and Gideon glanced at each other again, but decided not to say anything. "Thanks, Molly. They're great," Fabian said, honestly. Molly fiddled with the hem of her shirt.

"I just… I just want to thank you guys for being so open to me and Arthur getting married," Molly said quietly. "I know it's hard for you not to meddle and be all overprotective, but I appreciate that you aren't." She stood, smiled, and left.

Two hours later, Gideon's owl was winging its way toward Hogwarts and Professor Dumbledore, holding in its talons a letter merely saying, _We're of age._

))((

The next month, Molly announced to her family that she was getting married.

Or rather, she announced it to her mother and father, both of whom looked shocked. Fabian and Gideon just sat next to each other and looked bored.

After the announcement, there was a flurry of measurements, arrangements, and meetings, and then there they were – a tiny wedding with a few Weasleys, a few Prewetts, a pastor, and a homemade cake and dress.

Fabian and Gideon sat together, watching as their sister became Molly Weasley. "You know," Fabian whispered to Gideon as Molly said her vows, "she _does_ look happy."

Gideon sighed. "I know. But I'm still worried, and I'm still not sure I like him. We've barely had a chance to talk to him, you know."

Their mother glared at them, and the twins fell silent. Later, at the small reception, the boys sat together quietly, watching Molly dance with Arthur Weasley, not sure if they were happy, sad, or terrified.

))((

The boys went back to Hogwarts without Molly for the first time. They graduated with good grades and an acute knowledge that now, everything would change. Now, they were looking for a flat. Now that they had a flat, they were looking for ways to pay the bills. Now that they had jobs, they were merely looking at the Wizarding world and the war about to tear it apart.

Gideon and Fabian were so busy with their new lives that they hadn't had a chance to do more than dash Molly a quick letter since the wedding, and they received long, rambling letters in return. In one, Molly said that she and Arthur were thinking of having a child. Fabian had thrown a fit when he found out and sent her a Howler.

"_DO YOU REALLY THINK,"_ it had shrieked at Molly, "_THAT A _WAR_ IS THE RIGHT TIME TO BE HAVING CHILDREN? _THINK_, MOLLY!"_

Gideon had sighed as Fabian stomped around the flat. "Just think, Fabian," he had said soothingly. "We'll be uncles!" Despite the war, that had calmed Fabian down some.

But then, the summons came. An Order meeting, at a small room being rented by a young man named Benjy Fenwick. Gideon glanced up from the parchment, eyes wide. "It's getting serious now," he whispered, and Fabian looked alarmed.

The two Apparated to a corner a few blocks away from the apartment building and entered, buzzing the appropriate room.

"Names?" came a crackly voice. Gideon glanced at Fabian.

"Gideon and Fabian Prewett."

"Come up."

The two ascended the stairs to the fifth floor and entered room 52. It was a single room with a single large table, already crowded with members.

At the head was Albus Dumbledore, and after the twins had sat down, the rest of the group introduced themselves from Dumbledore's right; Edgar Bones, Benjy Fenwick, Mundungus Fletcher, Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Sturgis Podmore, Elphias Doge, Dedalus Diggle, Caradoc Dearborn, Professor McGonagall (to the boys' shock) and Hagrid.

"We will," Dumbledore said creakily, "be receiving a few new members from this next class to graduate from Hogwarts- unfortunately none of them are of age yet."

A buzz. Fenwick got up and pressed a button by the door. "Name?"

"Arthur Weasley," a voice panted. Gideon and Fabian glared at each other.

"Come up," Fenwick responded, and sat back down. A few moments later, McGonagall opened the door for Arthur Weasley, who stumbled in, red faced.

"So sorry I'm late," he panted. "I got stuck at work."

"It's quite all right," Dumbledore said kindly. "Do sit down, Arthur. Now," he turned his attention to the rest of the group. "I have called you here because attacks on Muggle-borns have begun. They are generally on a small scale, but they are something we should be worried about. I'd like to have everyone on alert when they're out and about, all right? I will alert you if we find out about a large-scale attack."

And that was basically it. There was some mundane talk, a few reintroductions for the Prewett brothers, and then Arthur looked up.

"Gideon, Fabian, Molly really wants to see you. It's only seven or so- would you like to come back with me?"

Gideon and Fabian gave each other suspicious looks, and then Fabian shrugged. Gideon nodded. "Sure."

There were good-byes, and then the three men left the apartment building. Gideon and Fabian followed Arthur away from the building, down a side street where they could Apparate undetected. Ahead of them, there was a noise.

Fabian and Gideon stopped a few steps behind Arthur, who pulled out his wand. The twins did the same.

Suddenly, all around them, cloaked figures appeared. They began shooting spells at the three. Gideon ducked and shot a spell at the closest figure- he guessed it was one of the Dark Lord's allies. They were being called Death Eaters, he remembered, as he shot a Stunning spell at another Death Eater.

Beside him, Fabian was fighting hard, but Gideon saw a figure creeping up behind him. "Fabian!" he screamed, but it was too late. The spell cut into Fabian's wand arm, and he dropped to the pavement, whimpering, his wand rolling into the gutter. Gideon whirled around to help him, but a Death Eater was in front of him.

Suddenly, Arthur Weasley was there. A spell hit the Death Eater behind Fabian just as it raised its wand. Spinning, Arthur fired another hex at a fleeing figure. Gideon disabled his own opponent, and watched as the remaining two Death Eaters fled the scene.

Said scene was a mess. There was blood, a few unresponsive bodies, and car alarms were ringing up and down the street from the spells, hexes, and curses. Arthur quickly grabbed Fabian's wand and hoisted him up. His glasses were broken and he looked very unlike the timid boy Gideon had grown to hate. "Come on, come on, Prewett!" Arthur urged. "We've got to get your brother out of here!"

Jerked back to reality, Gideon grabbed his brother's other arm, and Arthur Apparated them back to he and Molly's house, the Burrow.

Molly was in the kitchen, humming a cheery song and making stew when she heard the crack of Apparation. She whirled around and gasped. "Fabian!"

Molly rushed forward as a white-faced Fabian slumped to the floor, Arthur and Gideon kneeling by him. "Molly, we need hot water, bandages, and some potions to counteract Dark magic. I have no idea what spell made this." He looked troubled.

Molly nodded and rushed away. Gideon helped Arthur pull his twin into a chair, and Arthur dropped Fabian's wand on the table. Fabian looked terrified. "Hey… you okay?"

"Do I look okay?" Fabian asked, raising an eyebrow at his brother. Gideon sighed in relief. Fabian would be fine, if he could still joke.

Molly returned with the water, bandages, a smelly grey salve, and a steaming green vial of something. Arthur quickly washed the blood off of Fabian's arm, whispering, "Relax, Fabian, it's okay," every time Fabian whimpered in pain. To Gideon, it looked as though Fabian was a little kid again, not nearly a twenty-one year old.

Arthur was soon tightly wrapping a salve-soaked bandage around the cut as Molly fed Fabian the potion, which made his eyes flicker and close. Arthur stood and sighed. Molly bit her lip and put a hand on his shoulder. He smiled down at her.

"I'm fine, Molly, and Fabian will be fine too." He glanced at Gideon. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine… was he in pain? It didn't look like that bad a cut…" Gideon trailed off.

Arthur sighed again. "By all rights, he could have been screaming. Dark magic creates exquisitely dangerous and painful wounds." He looked sternly at Gideon. "Don't think less of him because he feels pain."

Gideon hung his head- despite their close ages, he felt like he was being scolded by his brother-in-law. "I'm not. I don't. I…" He was appalled to feel tears in his eyes, but looked up and met Arthur's gaze anyways. "Thank you for helping us. For helping him. Thank you so much."

Arthur smiled and wrapped an arm around Molly, who hugged him tightly before untangling herself and hugging Gideon, who gratefully hugged her back.

Twenty minutes later, Fabian was awake and still healing. At the moment he was mourning the dent on the watch from Molly. "It must have been when I fell," he groaned.

Molly grinned at her brothers, who were relaxing in front of the Burrow's fire. "Oh Fabian… you're so careless!"

Arthur laughed. "You should have seen them, though, Molly. With a little extra training, they'll be fantastic." He grinned. Gideon and Fabian smiled back. It was amazing how a near-death experience could bind you to people.

And as they drank coffee by the fire, Fabian and Gideon thought that even though a war was on, if there were still moments like this, maybe everyone would have a chance.

))((

**Epilogue- After Death**

The two died fighting Death Eaters. Fabian awoke in the Burrow first, and began swearing loudly. Gideon groaned and sat up. "What's wrong?" And then he, too, realized they were dead.

There wasn't much to do. Occasionally, they were visited by dead friends, like Benjy and Edgar, and even though it was sad to know they were dead, it was nice to be together without fear.

However, that didn't prevent them from using the fireplace to watch the war below constantly. The two had both cried watching the young Potters die, and, when Benjy brought Lily and James to the Burrow, they had poured coffee and toasted their son, Harry, making Lily smile through her tears.

And Gideon and Fabian also watched Molly, just as they always had, except now they were powerless to help her. And they watched Arthur, Bill, Charlie, Ron, Percy, Ginny, and of course, Fred and George.

Watching the twins was like watching themselves reincarnated. The crazy pranks, the back talk, the mischievous grins, and the way they looked out for their sister, even though Ginny was younger and not older, like Molly had been.

Then, one day in Ginny's sixth year, everything sort of came full circle for the first time. The Potters had just gone home after seeing Harry and Ginny lock lips for the first time after a Quidditch game in the Prewett's fire. Gideon and Fabian watched as, after her 'walk' with Harry, she sat a disgruntled Fred and George down.

"I'm going to go out with him."

"You want to do what again?" Fred had asked, and a familiar, firm look came over Ginny's face, causing Fabian to glance at Gideon.

"Remember when Molly did the same thing to us? Except she was telling us she was going to marry Arthur."

"Of course I remember," Gideon sighed, leaning back on the couch. "It all kind of came full circle. I'm glad they're all happy."

"I am too," Fabian sighed, leaning back as well and beginning to doze off. "I am too."

And so they would continue until Fred joined them, and then many years later, the rest of the Weasleys, and then Potters, and then Weasley-Potters, and soon, it was life in the afterlife exactly as it had been on Earth- a bustling Weasley family, with a few Potters, Prewetts, and Grangers thrown in. Everything had come full circle.


	15. Recipient: Zellah

**Title: **Goodbyes  
**Author:** ?  
**Recipient: **Zellah  
**Character/Pairing**: Narcissa Black-Malfoy and Lucius Malfoy; Andromeda Tonks

* * *

Narcissa Black-Malfoy said goodbye only three times in her life.

Once to her beloved sister.

Once to her dying parents.

And only once to her sweet son and perfect husband.

_-_

Narcissa Black sits straight in her chair, her face white, her jaw clenched.

She looks sickly, sad, and broken.

But she does not move a muscle. She does not turn her head to see their house elf bustling to and fro to clean up the plates that they just ate off of. She does not jump at the crash in the kitchen, the yelling.

She keeps totally silent. Her breathing is shallow. Her blonde hair does not rustle. Her hands do not quiver.

She is holding a note. A terrifying, saddening, sobering note.

And yet she has not read it. She has not moved since the house elf brought it to her.

She knows who it's from, though. What it says.

Andi left two months ago.

There have been two months' worth of letters.

And no responses.

Narcissa has no wish to read this letter. Andi never did write clearly, and she never sugar-coated anything. She knows that it will say bad things about the Black family, and how Andi and her good-for-nothing Mudblood were struggling. She'll say that Narcissa is the only one she can trust. She'll say how hard it is not to have a response, and she'll beg for her to write back.

Narcissa knows all this, and so she doesn't read the letter. She sits, still as a statue, until Bella comes in and shakes her.

"Cissy! Cissy, wake up."

"As if I'm asleep," she responds, blinking slowly.

"Rodo and I are leaving now. Goodbye." Narcissa doesn't move to hug her sister, and so Bella leaves with an aggravated sigh.

She can't stand it a moment longer. She looks down at the messily penned letter. It's shorter than usual, and the first thing she notices is the lack of address on top.

Narcissa -

_Ted and I have moved into a _real_ place, with the help of his parents. I'm pregnant, and so they will be providing for us more and more once the baby comes._

_At one point in my life, I would have named you the godmother. I would have invited you to see our little girl or boy, and I would have cried with joy upon seeing you._

_I'll tell you the truth, Narcissa - you were my favorite. I thought you understood me like no one else. Now, I realize I was mistaken. I loved you more than anything in the world. And now Ted and the baby - my new family - have taken up your spot wholly._

_I have not given an address like I usually do. I do not want you to write to me, Cissy. I'm going to move on, and forget about my old life. I'm going to focus on the baby and the love of my life. _

_I'm not going to tell you when our child is born. I'm not going to notify you of his or her name. I will not tell you how Ted is. I will not inform you when the baby walks or talks or smiles._

_This is goodbye, Cissy._

_I will always love you, and I can only hope you will do the same._

_~Andromeda_

It is startling to read such a calm letter from your ex-sister. It's worse still to have learned how you were once so valuable to her, and lost that.

But the most terrible part of it is that you now know that she doesn't need you - that you are no longer included in her life.

Narcissa is badly shaken, but she does not cry or moan or tell anyone what the letter says. She goes to her room, shuts the door, and rips the letter to pieces. She opens the window and lets the shreds float away, never to be seen again.

But when one last piece is left, she closes her hand round it. She closes the window and studies the scrap.

It is the word _goodbye_, the top of the loopy D cut off and the end of the E missing. She holds the scrap to her chest, and rocks slowly, for just a moment. Then she puts it in the pages of her diary, and sticks it there with a charm.

_Goodbye._

_-_

Narcissa Malfoy had attended many funerals. That happens during wartime.

But the thought of a double-funeral, held in honor of her parents, was nearly too much to bear.

Lucius holds her tightly to his chest as they wander the empty halls of her parents' house. He kisses her hair as she sits on the cobwebbed couch and cries. He lets her sob for hours at their own house, her face becoming redder and uglier by the second.

It is love, she decides, when someone sees you completely defenseless and broken.

She gets to see her parents the day before they die. She sees the white face of her mother struggle, even, to frown. She catches sight of the tired look on her father's face. She looks at the disheartened doctor.

"You shouldn't…see…us…like…this…" her mother rasps. The doctor tells her to shush, that the strain is too much for her frail body.

"Mum, you're dying. This is the last time I'll speak to you. Ever."

Her father's eyes flutter open. He, too, is white as a sheet.

"They're dying - too old to continue on with their lives. They're certainly no Albus Dumbledores, living on and on like he did. Seems you Blacks have shorter lifespans than most," the doctor told Narcissa. She'd lashed out at him, screaming that no one was remembering old Dumbledore at a time like this, and that he had disrespected a long line of powerful Blacks.

But looking at her parents, so frail and white and broken, she finds it impossible to disagree. They are too old to do anything anymore, when once they had been strong and healthy.

She stays for only a half an hour, unable to bear it. But when she leaves, she kisses both of them for the first time in years, and tells them of her love.

"Goodbye," she says, and she knows that it is truly the end.

_Goodbye._

_-_

The end of one's life and the end of someone else's are two totally different things, but I believe that it is impossible to know the true reality of that until your dying day.

Narcissa Malfoy had lived longer than her parents. She'd outlived Bella, Andi, even fucking Lord Voldemort.

But Lucius is there, holding her hand, when she drifts away.

So is Draco, his face tear-stricken and his hands clenched. His wife sits next to him, her head in her hands, her children surrounding the two of them. Little Scor, barely four, still doesn't understand it. "But _Mummy_," he says, "Grandmum is right _there_."

"No, Scor, not anymore," Grace scolds him, using her so-called maturity. She's good at being an older sister, and Narcissa tries to smile amusedly at the little family.

Somehow, she feels no pain, only a little bit of sadness.

"Will I ever see you again?" she murmurs near-silently to Lucius.

"Of course, my love. I will come find you, I promise," he swears to her, leaning his head onto her chest. She does not have the energy to stroke the gray hairs there, but she imagines that she still can.

"I…love you," she says, and with her last breath, whispers, "Goodbye."

The last image she sees is Lucius's eyes, filled with tears, as he kisses her gently.

_Goodbye._


	16. Recipient: The Awkward Turtle

**Title:** An Undeserving Man

**Author:** ?

**Recipient: **The Awkward Turtle

**Character/Pairing:** Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks (pre-ship)

**Author's Notes**: Thanks to S. for beta-reading. This is the first time I've ever written Remus/Tonks as the centre of a story, so I hope this is what you were wanting, Turtle

* * *

It was the dawn of a new day. For Remus Lupin, it was the last of a full moon cycle.

He dressed himself, ignoring the trembling in his hands and his clammy skin; the monster from the night before had stepped backwards in full retreat. Remus rolled his sleeves up his arm, pausing when he saw several healed and not-so-healed cuts.

He sighed; his last attempt at infiltrating a hostile pack of werewolves had left him a bit worse for the wear, and he had a few scars that needed better mending. He did a passable job most days. This day, he could barely muster any energy to seal the wounds properly.

Remus wrapped his cloak around his worn and lean figure. With a couple of clicks of the door, he unlocked it and stepped out of the old, but quaint Lupin home. He didn't linger in front of the building for long, instead pivoting away hastily to Apparate to Grimmauld Place.

* * *

The first thing he noticed when he entered Sirius' house was the smell of Molly preparing a meal. With his sense of smell still sensitive in the wake of his last transformation, Remus could identify freshly baked breads, beef broth, cooked vegetables, and the savoury aroma of roasted meat.

"Wotcher, Remus… bloody hell! What happened to your face?"

He barely had a chance to hang his coat on the hanger next to the door when Tonks yanked on his shoulder to get a look at him. She made for his hands, turning them over in her own.

"I look that bad, Tonks?"

"Not just bad, but _bleeding_. You need a mirror, and my steady hand."

"Is that Remus there?"

"Yes Molly! Keep cooking." The Auror leaned towards him. "You can thank me later for keeping her from seeing you in this condition. You wouldn't hear the end of it."

"Oh no. I'm well aware of Molly's reactions whenever I return from a mission. There's usually yelling and some rough handling of the cuts and scars."

"Probably more painful than how you got those, right?"

Remus shrugged. "It wouldn't be Molly without the eager concern. Or righteous anger."

Tonks took hold of his arm, led him up the first flight of stairs, and turned a corner. And ran, front first, into a small hutch in the corner of the landing.

"Ow!"

"Better watch out. That rogue furniture can sneak up on you."

She flashed Remus a glare, but the way that she pursed her lips together told him she was fighting back a smile. She led him up the stairs without further accident, straight to the bathroom on the next floor. He felt the need to protest and struggle dim as she closed the door; it was rather nice to be looked after by someone, instead of repairing his own broken skin after his dreaded assignments. Remus tried to ignore the fact that he was in the room alone with Tonks. It was better to convince himself that it wouldn't be any different had it been Sirius or Kingsley or Moody in here helping him.

It wasn't helping. And it only worsened as her hands touched his face, turning him gingerly from left to right. She studied his scars, and Remus could feel her breath on his nose, on his forehead, on his cheeks as she explored him.

With a smile, she started tapping his wounds with her wand, muttering the Sealing Charm's incantation: "_Termino_."

He let her work on his face, saying nothing to interrupt her as she healed him.

"Did you break anything?"

"No. Nothing broken."

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "Nothing sprained?" She smirked as he shook his head. "I cast a mean _Episkey_, Remus."

"I'll remember that," he intoned with his gentle voice.

She stood back to admire her handiwork. "You're all better now. No more open wounds marring your face."

Remus caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. "I'm impressed."

"Just impressed? I worked wonders on that mug of yours. Did you see what you looked like before?"

"Not really. I did wonder though how bad it was when you saw me. You looked like you had just seen an accident."

Tonks face fell, and she placed her wand on the counter. "Remus, you should've asked one of us for help. Kingsley or Moody or—"

Was she insane? Was she simply parading her Auror bravado in front of him because she thought he'd be impressed? Clearly, Tonks had not thought things through, the consequences of infiltrating hostile packs of creatures like him.

"Oh, yes. Because you'd blend in with _them._"

She looked at him flatly. "Hello. Pleased to meet you. My name is Tonks. Metamorphmagus at your service. And, just in case you were wondering, yes it _does_ cover lycanthropy," she said sardonically. "Maybe you could do with a partner."

"I have Padfoot," he said, although his voice was soft and hesitant.

"Which would be good if he wasn't already wanted for murder. At some point, dear Remus, you will have to let other people into your life, which happens to include you being a werewolf."

Remus felt the muscle in his jaw twitch. He didn't like being confronted dead on about his "furry little problem" (and, yes, it hurt him still to remember James' words, although he admired Sirius for his ability to quote James without similar hesitation). For some reason, Tonks persisted in bringing it up, challenging him at every turn.

"Tonks, it's really far too dangerous to allow anyone to accompany me on these missions."

"I know. It's too bad that I'm not trained as an Auror or anything. Wouldn't want the big bad wolves to bite me."

He felt his temper edging up, a problem for him that lasted a couple of days after the full moon cycle. "No amount of Auror training can cover up the fact that you don't smell like one of _them_."

She raised an eyebrow at this, and smirked. "Better or worse, Remus?"

"What?"

She chuckled mischievously. "Do I smell better or worse than them?"

His brow creased. What was with this line of questioning? Remus did not have similar instincts that Sirius, or James had possessed when dealing with witches. There was a part of him that thought, almost imagined, that Tonks was flirting with him. It was in her grin, the way her eyes regarded him, with lowered lids, the cheeky manner in which she bit her lip that made him think—

But no. That was impossible. She was a good thirteen years younger than him. Before starting all this crazy, dangerous Order business, the last time he had seen Tonks was when she was seven or eight years old, and he and Sirius had visited his cousin Andromeda and Ted at their new home.

She was, even then, an extraordinarily clumsy child. But a lively, spirited one as well. Just watching her made Remus smile even when he didn't want to…

"Remus?" Tonks whistled and waved a hand in front of his face. "You look like you completely wandered off to a happy place."

He blinked, realizing that he had been lost in the memory of her as a young girl, her feet barely touching the bright green field — one of the more peaceful memories of the summer of '80. "Yes, er, did you ask me a question?"

"Well, I only wondered whether I smelled better or worse than the wolves you have to run around with. Although, your silence is starting to make me worried about the answer."

He knew he should've left her question hanging in the air without reply. But the memory had gotten to him, and Remus couldn't stop the words from spilling out.

"You've got nothing to worry about, Tonks. Believe me, you smell far nicer compared to any of those creatures. Like a field in the summer, or fresh fruit and tea with lemon, and…" Remus let his voice fall off, suddenly conscious about where his train of thought was going.

He hoped, for his own sake, that he sounded more elderly brother than some lecherous old man.

But instead of the disgust that Remus had anticipated, there was only Tonks' smile, her lips revealing him her white, ageless teeth. "You stop there? I sensed a poem coming on. What do you say, _Professor_," she said with that charming, beautiful grin. "Give me a little more. I want to hear how I remind you of a flower or something pretty like that."

He held his breath; really, what use was it to think about how attractive she was?

"Dora, can't you just be assured that you don't smell like an animal?"

"But you were saying such pretty things bef-, wait. What did you say?"

"That you don't smell like an animal."

"No. Before that." She narrowed her eyes and wiggled her finger at him. "You didn't call me Tonks."

"Nor did I call you Nymphadora. There are certain parts of my body that I still value."

"'Dora' you said. You called me Dora." She canted her head, still smiling in that way that inexplicably charmed Remus. "That's the first time you've called me anything other than Tonks."

This was not true, but he did not expect her to remember that, years ago, the name had slipped out when he had watched her play.

"Er, I hope that hasn't earned me a hex."

She gave him a light punch in his lean gut. "I rather like it. _Dora_." She nodded and raised her wand. "Remus, from hereto forth, I proclaim that you must forever call me Dora! From now and into the future."

He chuckled. "Oh, do you?"

"Yes. Failure to do so shall earn you a hex. And be warned: I do know all the good ones."

"Pray tell, what would make a hex a good one?"

"Well, for starters, it would change your face into one that resembles an ape."

Remus laughed heartily. "I wouldn't want that to happen."

"Neither would I. And deprive the world of your handsome mug? Never!"

Now, his heart really stopped beating. Handsome? Not in a million years. Not with his scars or his white hairs. Not with the body he possessed now, worn from countless transformations and battles with inhuman beasts.

No one in their right mind would call him handsome. But yet, despite his belief in that one basic fact, here was this young woman, her whole life in front of her, staring at him with shining eyes and a coy smile.

Looking at her, he saw — _felt _— infinite possibilities, a promise or perhaps hope for something bigger and better than himself.

This was improbable, perhaps impossible, for someone such as himself, part man and part wolf. To the Ministry, he wasn't even a whole person. Not quite the criminal maniac that Sirius was thought to be, but also not the man that a woman like Tonks deserved.

However, even as he thought all of this, even as his mind repeated over and over _no, no, no_, as if it was a mantra centred around his own inadequacy, Remus locked his gaze on her steadier one. For just one moment, he believed he was a better man.

He had never known anyone else to make him feel that way. He did not deserve it.

"Hold on," she said, bending down to the level of his face. Remus wanted to flinch and look away, but he couldn't. She was Tonks. She was young, smart, energetic, and beautiful—

Not to mention funny as hell.

She was everything Remus wanted. But she'd never want this shell of a man.

Tonks reached out and touched the forelock of his hair with her hand, brushing it away, leaving his skin hot, as if on fire from her touch.

And then she smiled. And Remus noticed how close her lips were.

"Like I said. Your handsome mug." He shut his eyes as Tonks kissed his nose. She paused, gazing at him for a few moments before standing up. "Now, you may go off to play with your Padfoot."

He chuckled. "You sound like my mother. Dora."

His nickname for her clearly pleased Tonks, and Remus decided he needed to continue to call her that, if only to see her face as it looked at that moment. "Well, someone's got to look after you two hooligans. Make sure you don't burn the place down."

Remus stood up and opened the door. "After you, Dora."

Grinning wide at him, Tonks bowed her head and walked past him, and Remus allowed his body to enjoy the charge he felt as she brushed past him, imagining that her hand had reached out to touch his on purpose.


	17. Recipient: Riiko Shea

**Title:** A Split Second's Realization

**Author:** ?

**Recipient: **Riiko Shea

**Character/Pairing:** Remus Lupin/Nymphadora Tonks; Sirius Black

**Author's Notes**: I hope this is some way meets your request. Having never done this pairing or given it much thought it was an interesting stretch for me. Sorry it was so late… hope you enjoy.

* * *

"She'll kill you," Sirius grinned. "I'm telling you Moony, you give her those things and she'll hex your nads right off."

Remus Lupin looked down at the potted flowers he carried and frowned. Girls liked flowers. Girls liked getting flowers. Tonks was a girl. Therefore, she would like to get flowers.

"Why?"

"Just trust me. Narcissus is not the plant for Tonks."

"They're daffodils. She likes yellow."

"Right, give her poisonous bulbs with a name reminiscent of her mother's sister. Nice choice."

"Daffodils do not sound like Narcissa."

"No, I was being polite. She will think you are calling her daffy."

"It is all they had left … this and …the florist said they meant R_egards_."

"That too, R_egards_ is something you give to the boss' wife. No Remus, dump the flowers." Sirius pulled his wand out and reduced the flowers to ash. "Better to take her a box of chocolates instead."

"I tried that last time," Remus frowned. "She left them on a chair in the sitting room and…I paid for the dry cleaning but her mother looked at me as if I did it on purpose."

"Have you just tried going out with her and not taking gifts?"

"Have you ever seen the looks her mother gives me? I feel like a child molester every time I knock on the door."

"Right, better to look like you are paying for it." Sirius stepped back and looked at him head to toe and then from toe to head. "You do sort of remind me of one. It's that baggy trouser hangdog unfed look. Got anything that fits?"

"We are just stopping at the Hogs Head for a drink." Remus looked down at his clothes, and then shoved his hands in his pockets.

"That's the look you have to avoid. Andromeda must wonder what you're doing with your hands tucked away all the time."

Remus pulled his hands from his pockets as a blush crept up this neck.

"I have done this before you know. It's not like I have never dated."

"With someone this decade?"

Remus sat at the kitchen table heavily and rested his forearms on the table leaning forward and moaning into his hands. Sirius saw the defeated posture and felt sympathy for his old friend.

"Just not someone in _her _decade," Remus said as he watched Sirius take the chair opposite him. "We have nothing in common, I know none of her friends, bloody hell, she is an Auror. If her co-workers found out about me she could lose her job."

"She should you know, lose the job I mean. Times are getting bad Remus, she should be taken out of it a while, you know, just until the worst is over."

"I've tried to get her to quit. She just screws up her nose and does that chicken cluck. I am worried for her Sirius. She doesn't stop to think, she just rushes in to a duel without a thought that she could be hurt."

"What do you plan on doing about it?" Sirius leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms up and clasped his hands behind his head as he grinned at Remus.

Remus looked at him from under his brows and scowled. "Nothing much I can do, now is there? Dumbledore won't tell her to stay out of it. If she loses her job she will just be in it thicker with the Order."

"You could…"

"No, she is too young to stand up to him and too stubborn to say no."

"I was going to say _you_ could do something."

"Stay out of it Sirius," he snarled as he stood up quick enough to push the chair over and strode to the back door.

"Will you two be coming back here then?" Sirius frowned. "You're welcome to stay here you know."

Remus turned angrily and glared at him. "Let it go."

"Hey," Sirius raised both hands palms out as if in surrender. "Promise, I'll be in my room."

"I can't do that to her. I can't lead her on and let her think there will be something more, some sort of happy ending to this. I won't have a happy ending."

"None of us will my friend. Just don't be alone when it comes."

Remus slammed both hands against the door to push it open. He stood in the yard and closed his eyes, concentrating on breathing evenly and trying to put Sirius' suggestion of bringing her back for the night from his mind. As if it could be so simple. Nothing about her was simple.

Instead of collecting her, he spent the night walking, knowing she would be waiting. Finally, he found himself in the woods behind Hogsmeade. Stopping at the clearing that surrounded the shrieking shack and leaning on the fence he could still hear their voices from so long ago.

"_Moony, come on," James laughed. "What's the matter? Need four legs to keep up?" _

"_Look who's talking," Peter walked alongside Remus, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. "Bet if that Evans bird wasn't ahead of us he wouldn't be in such a hurry. Anyway Prongs, I hear she likes shorter wizards."_

"_You wish Wormtail," James smirked. "Padfoot and I are going to see if we can get served in the Hogs Head." _

"_Yeah, you're too short to reach the bar and Moony there may start itching those fleas," Sirius sniggered and punched Remus in the arm. "Told you to get a collar." _

The four laughed and continued to tease each other until Remus shook his head and came back to the present reluctantly. The jokes had hurt even then, but these were his friends, his family. He knew they were joking, he knew what they said was meant to make him feel accepted, but Tonks would hear more than jokes from friends. She would hear the none too gentle jokes and be included in the none to kind innuendoes. She would not hear the laughing jokes of young boys out for a day of fun. She would hear the ugliness that he knew so well.

It was well after midnight when he found himself walking up to her house and seeing the soft yellow glow of firelight in the kitchen window. He knew she would be up waiting still, not able to believe he had stood her up. Part of him loved that in her, the complete acceptance and never asking for more than he had to give, and part hated that she could think so little of herself as to allow it.

"We still have time to catch a drink if you still want to go," she looked up from the step she was sitting on at the back door.

"We need to talk." He flopped down next to her.

"No, we've talked enough."

"Dora, this isn't working."

"I will buy you a new watch," she snorted a laugh. "Seems to me that is all you need."

"You know what I mean."

"No I don't. I only know what you say Remus, you hide what you mean."

"We have been through this before."

"Right," she muttered then screwed up her face and turned her hair back to its natural brown that Remus preferred, letting her eyes darken, her face soften and become rounded, and her lips become fuller. "You want the real me?"

He chuckled and traced her jaw line with the pad of his thumb. "Why do you do this? Hide your face?"

"Why do you do _this_?" she quirked. "Hide your feelings."

She turned away from him and drew up her legs, wrapped her arms around them and laid her chin on her knees.

"You say I am too young, what you mean is that you are afraid of having a good time and letting go of who you think you should be. You say you're poor, but without you I will have the same amount I have now so what you mean is you'll feel odd living on my salary."

"A man should support his wife."

"Who said I had to marry you?" She turned her head to look at him. "I'll take what I can get. I won't ask for more than you can give."

"I won't do that Dora, you know that."

"You say that you may hurt me, but what you're saying is that I may hurt you because you couldn't hurt me anymore than you're doing right now."

"You couldn't hurt me Dora," he said softly.

"I want to Remus. I want to say something so hateful and mean that it will wake you up and force you to _talk to me._ I want you to just once get so angry that you forget who you think you are and let me see the real you. I want you to change your face for me Remus."

"You wouldn't like it."

"I'm not talking about what that monster did to you, I don't care about that. That's not who you are."

"But it is Dora, trust me…it is who I am."

"Only a part, a small part. Where is the man that learned to control it? Where is the man that learned to live with it? To have a normal life? To fight against the arses that said you couldn't do it? Where is the man that took everything they threw at him and still turned into the man that I love? That is whom I want. That is whom I see every time I look at you, but you want me to see a defeated man that can't ever be anything more. You can be so much more. Just let me love you. Just let me be me, and if you don't love me back just tell me so."

He grabbed her by the shoulders and yanked her to him, hard and rough, crushing his mouth over hers. One arm slid down to her waist, holding her tight, unyielding and hard while the other found the hem of her shirt and snaked inside to feel the skin that covered her back like raw silk.

He felt her stiffen and begin to struggle against him then relax as her arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him down. Then he tasted the salt of her tears. Just as suddenly as he had grabbed her, he now pushed her away, letting her fall to the ground as he stood up.

"I am not a boy Dora. I am not the kind boyfriend you need. Find someone else."

"I don't want someone else."

"It ends tonight," he tried to calm his breathing as he clenched his fists and fought not to grab her again.

The door opened behind them showing Andromeda clutching a robe tightly around her body. She pressed her lips together seeing Nymphadora on the ground and turned to glare at Remus.

"I am sure there is a reason my daughter is on the ground in tears. Just consider yourself lucky to be leaving. Dumbledore wants you to meet him at the Ministry. It appears that Potter kid took a bunch of others to save Sirius. Dumbledore said to tell you He Who Must Not Be Named set up a ruse to get him there."

Remus frowned, then looking to where Nymphadora was struggling to her feet turned back to Andromeda.

"Keep her here," he said gruffly.

He turned and began to run, turning mid-stride and landing in the Ministry's lobby just before the others. He saw Sirius and Moody arrive and then turned to the sound of yet another apparation to see Tonks land flat on the floor. He angrily reached down his hand to help her up only to have her push him away.

"You should have stayed back," he hissed.

"Knock it off Moony," Sirius glared at him. "Get over here. Moody has the co-ordinates. We enter the chamber at the same time."

"How many are there?" Tonks walked up pulling out her wand, not meeting Remus' eyes.

"You take as many of the students as you can and leave," Remus spat at her.

"We don't know if she can get to them," Moody said. "All we know is that they are in the chamber. We are going in blind."

Tonks screwed her face up and changed back to the bright colours she always wore. Remus frowned at her and pulled Moody aside.

"She draws attention to herself," he whispered. "She will make …"

"Her choice…" the scarred old Auror grumbled. "Leave it out here, you know what is about to happen. You need to focus."

Remus nodded and once again steeled himself, putting away all thought of the connections he had with the others in this room.

"Okay, come on… let's do it," Sirius grinned as they all spun out together.

Later Remus could not remember exactly what happened. He remembered the darkness, the children held with wands pointed at their throats. Everything moved so fast, so horribly fast but in slow motion as if wanting to stop and redo what was about to happen. He heard the curses, saw the flashes, and was reassured hearing Moody's staff slam into the floor behind him. He saw Sirius focus on Harry, only Harry. Attempting to get to the boy before the perimeter of the room had been cleared. Twice he tried to stop him, twice needing to call him back but at the end could only watch as he duelled with Malfoy, shielding the boy with his body. Knowing he was open for attack from three sides. Knowing he could watch but one.

Then the moment came. The split second error. The error that would take Sirius away. He saw Sirius pause and smile as he looked to Harry, and in that smile lost his concentration and the battle. A split second was all it took for Bellatrix to find her mark. A split second was all it took for Harry to see his godfather slip away and his life change forever. A split second for Remus to see that he did not die alone but _with_ someone, and _for_ someone that cared. And a split second to wonder who would cry out for him if he sent his Dora away. And a split second to know that if he were Sirius and Harry were Dora he could go with the same look as Sirius. Accepting and with no regrets.


	18. Recipient: respitechristopher

**Title:** Agony Uncle

**Author:** ?

**Recipient: **respitechristopher

**Character/Pairing:** James Sirius Potter; Scorpius Malfoy; assorted other nextgen characters

**Author's Notes**: I think this is probably plain humour rather than actual snark, Christopher, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. An extra chocolate frog card if you recognise the reference in the first line.

* * *

James Sirius Potter, handsome, clever, and rich, with a comfortable home and happy disposition, seemed to unite some of the best blessings of existence; and had lived nearly eighteen years in the world with very little to distress or vex him.

Well, apart from the complicated love-lives of his siblings and cousins of course.

It had begun ridiculously early. James had only been nine years old when he had become an unwilling co-conspirator with Teddy and Victoire, whom he kept finding in compromising positions in the broom shed, in the pantry, in his own bedroom, in the attic… For some reason, they seemed to think that the Potter household was a safer place either of their own homes; and that James' parents were more likely to turn a blindish eye to their liaison than Victoire's exacting mother and over-protective father, or than Teddy's grandmother, who still thought very like a Black (and a Black from the early part of the last century) in the matter of young people's behaviour. So James was sworn to secrecy, and even recruited as a spy by the young lovers. There were bribes from Teddy (James was still young enough that a chocolate frog or two or the promise of something that his mother would disapprove of from The Wheeze would buy his co-operation) and overt threats from Victoire about exactly which bits of him she would hex if he gave them away (Victoire could be quite as scary as her mother when she chose).

Fortunately, those days were long gone. Victoire and Teddy had been married for over a year now, and James had even received an honourable mention in the bridegroom's speech at the wedding. And the remaining Beautiful People (Uncle Bill and Tante Fleur's other kids) had so far – thank Merlin – managed to conduct their love-lives without James' assistance. As had the other older cousins.

Even Freddie, James' best friend as well as cousin, had managed to keep his friendship with James and his love-life (such as it was) entirely separate. But then, as a fifteen-year-old James had remarked at breakfast one day in the Christmas holidays, Freddie didn't have a complicated bone in his body when it came to girls. His mum and Albus had sniggered into their cornflakes at that, and even his father's lips had twitched. It had taken James nearly as long as the open-mouthed and wide-eyed Lily to work out why what he had said was funny. It really was too much when your parents – who were supposed to be too old for such things by the mere fact of their _being_ parents – saw innuendo in the most innocent of remarks. But, as his mother informed him tartly later when he complained about it (and she could do tart as well as anyone he knew, with the possible exceptions of Professor McGonagall and Tante Fleur), he could hardly expect her to be sweet and innocent when she had grown up with six elder brothers.

But the love-lives of James' brother and sister, and of his closest cousins, Rose and Hugo, were another matter. The four of them seemed to have appointed him as some sort of unofficial Agony Uncle, who should be prepared at any hour of the day or night to be available to provide advice, sympathy, concealment charms, glamours or (when all else failed) tissues and chocolate in abundance.

James didn't understand it. He supposed he was good enough at listening, but it wasn't as if he had a lot of _experience_. He had fallen (as far as an eight-year-old can) for Cathleen Finnigan at one of the numerous DA reunions his parents had dragged him to. ("Do we _have _to come?" "Yes, of course you do. You're the reason we did it.") Subsequently, he had been obscurely disappointed, watching as a second year from the Gryffindor table when the Hat had Sorted Cathleen into Hufflepuff with barely more than a second's thought. Both her parents were Gryffs; James had assumed she would be too – although she seemed happy enough as she headed for the cheering 'Puff table. It took a further two years (some Gryffindor he was) before he plucked up courage to actually talk to her, and then another year before he asked her out. Her immediate acquiescence was accompanied with a slight eye-roll that gave James the distinct impression that she had been wondering what the heck had kept him from asking earlier. But since then, they had been one of those inseparable _inevitable _couples, and no one doubted that they would "do a Gran and Grandad Weasley" – get married more or less straight from school, have a ridiculous number of kids in a very short time, and live blissfully ever after.

So it wasn't as if James had a lot of experience when it came to the opposite sex and relationships to pass on to Albus, Lily, Rose and Hugo. He supposed it was simply because he was the oldest of the five of them, that he was around and that he was willing to listen. Though, honestly, didn't any of them have _friends_? Didn't they have _parents_? (Well, maybe not – it wasn't as if his dad was exactly brilliant at relationships if Uncle Ron's stories of his history with girls were to be believed. And as for Uncle Ron himself and Aunt Hermione, it had apparently taken a bloody _battle _for them to admit how they felt about each other. His mum, maybe, was a bit more clued-up, but she was as likely to laugh at her children's and niece's and nephew's problems as to actually say anything helpful.)

So poor James dispensed sympathy and chocolate in equal measure as he listened resignedly to the recital of Albus' complicated feelings about Leila Jordan and Sally Marcham and Dolores Thicknesse. Not to mention Henry Wood and Chip Malone and Colin Creevey. It would help if Al would make up his tiny mind about which side he was batting for, James thought. It was obvious to him that his brother was as gay as toast, but he supposed that that was something Albus had to work out for himself. None of his relationships had lasted more than six weeks, and James was always the one who dealt with the fallout. It was getting repetitive.

Lily was less of a trial. She began her Hogwarts years with a wholly unsuitable but entirely understandable crush on David Bostock, the current Head Boy, moving on seamlessly to the new DADA teacher, Professor Cullen, in her second year. But since then, she had had a series of fairly short-term but mainly happy relationships with a procession of boys in her year and the one above. She was currently single, and "enjoying her freedom" as she blithely informed her elder brother – although from the looks she was giving Ricky Wood across the Great Hall at mealtimes, James did not think that _that_ situation would last long.

Hugo was simple enough too, even if dealing with him did require a constant supply of chocolate frogs, as James sympathised with his cousin's failures. Hugo had inherited all of his father's tact, and then some, accompanied by an unfortunate tendency not to see beyond what might be called a girl's more _obvious_ attributes. James had to tell him gently that he was not surprised that Susan Longbottom had slapped him hard around the face when he asked her out with his eyes fixed firmly on her chest. Then a few weeks later he had to inform him that Cathleen's sister, Colleen, had had a point when she told him it was usual to actually _ask_ a girl before telling all and sundry that they were going out. (James also had to spend a happy few hours trying to reverse the boil and blemish hex that Colleen had used on Hugo's more tender areas. It was a family speciality, and Cathleen knew the reversal charm, but refused to help out, saying huffily that Hugo bloody well deserved it.) Hugo was currently mooning over the Slytherin prefect Fateema Briscoe, but even his incurable optimism seemed to recognise that she was way beyond his reach. So – beyond requiring his cousin to provide him with an almost infinite supply of Honeydukes wares , which was doing poor Hugo's skin problems no good at all – Hugo was more or less leaving James in peace these days.

Rose was the worst of all of them. Her on-off relationship with Scorpius Malfoy had been the bane of James' life for almost six full years, beginning as it did on the Hogwarts Express on Rose and Scorpius' very first day at Hogwarts. The Sorting Hat's somewhat surprising decision to send the pair of them to Ravenclaw hadn't helped of course. It threw them together – which was good when they were speaking to each other (odd-numbered months with an "r" in, James had worked out); even better when they were an item (Christmas, Hallowe'en, when Ravenclaw won at Quidditch, and when a date was needed for Hogsmeade or the occasional balls and parties which the new Hogwarts regime seemed to think were a good idea); and very bad indeed when they were at each other's throats (all the days in between – and to poor James there seemed to be an awful lot of those). James had come to dread Rose approaching him "for a chat" in the Great Hall or the castle grounds, whether her face was blotchy from crying or wreathed in happy smiles. He was tired of hearing how Scorpius was the best thing in the world ever, the kindest most considerate boy she had ever met, the love of Rose's life. He was even sicker of the times when Rose never wanted to see his stuck-up face again, when every stupid thing Scorpius had ever said or done was dissected in minute detail, when she wanted to know if his mum had taught him the Bat-Bogey hex, and whether he would pass it on to her. Poor James could never win with Rose. Whatever he said – whether to praise Scorpius (who was a nice enough bloke, considering his unfortunate parentage) or censure him (he was Draco Malfoy's son, after all), was bound to be thrown back in his face the next time Rose's feelings suffered a reversal.

But lately, James had had a bit of a reprieve. To everyone's surprise – and her father's undisguised delight – Rose had thrown over Scorpius for the new love of her life, the Ravenclaw prefect (and everyone's pick to succeed James as Head Boy next year) Edward Corner. The two of them – bright, good-looking and sparkly with new love – were Hogwarts' new Golden Couple. James sincerely hoped it would last.

It was a bit of a shock, then, when Scorpius Malfoy himself, approached James diffidently in the stands of the Quidditch pitch one cold Saturday in April. The two of them were watching the Slytherin team practise – to the team's intense irritation – and taking notes for their own sides. Or they were supposed to be – the Slytherin captain, Jeremiah Flint, was taking so long briefing his team down on the pitch that James was beginning to doubt if they would actually mount their broomsticks today. It was almost a relief when Scorpius sat down beside him – at least talking to him was something to do – until he began to actually speak.

At first, James had assumed that Scorpius would want to talk about Rose and her new relationship, to pick his cousinly brains about how sincere and lasting her feelings for Edward were, to moan about his own misfortune; but it was quickly apparent that that was not the case. Scorpius, like Rose, had apparently moved on.

"I thought, perhaps, since you're their brother, you might know how they feel about me," Scorpius was saying, with a note that was almost pleading in his voice. James groaned inwardly. It seemed that they had moved on from Scorpius-Malfoy-and-his-own-cousin to Scorpius-Malfoy-and-his-own-sister, which was infinitely indefinably worse. He didn't think his dad would be any happier than Uncle Ron had been at the thought of Draco Malfoy's son going out with his daughter either.

But, being a nice bloke at heart, James tried to be sympathetic. He tried to say as tactfully as possible that "they" (for some reason, they both seemed to be avoiding using Lily's name) might have their sights set on someone else; he wondered if Scorpius was just on the rebound from Rose; he suggested as kindly as he could that Scorpius might look a bit wider than the Potter-Weasley clan for his new love. In the end, from pure irritation, and a feeling that this was bloody unfair, that it was bad enough being the universal confidante for his own family, let alone a Malfoy, James lost his temper and said what he really felt.

"Look, Malfoy, I don't want you going out with my sister, okay?"

Scorpius regarded him open-mouthed and wide-eyed. "Who said anything about your sister?"


	19. Recipient: Beefcake the Mighty

**Title:** Here's A Hand To Hold Onto

**Author:** ?

**Recipient:** Beefcake the Mighty

**Character/Pairing:** James Potter and Lily Evans

* * *

_Roses, orchids, daisies, daffodils, tulips, violets, carnations, poppies, begonias, hyacinths, geraniums..._

James Potter rapidly walked back and forth across the polished hardwood floor in his dorm room, each step making a dull thump. His lips frantically muttered intelligible words as he continuously ran his right hand through his dark hair.

One day. Twenty-four hours. One thousand four hundred and forty minutes. Eight-six thousand and four hundred seconds. Each of which were ticking away as he wasted time pacing. He had been at this for so long that he thought he'd wear a dent in the floor.

A day was all the time he had left if he wanted a chance with Lily. He couldn't believe, that after coming this close, she would slip away from him yet again. Merlin's pants, he thought he had grown up! He was Head Boy now – protector and saviour of ickle firsties, instead of their tormentor. She still had kept him at arm's length, despite their tentative friendship since becoming Head Boy and Girl. She was feisty, with her fiery red hair. She just wouldn't let him have her, which was so unlike the other girls who threw themselves at the Gryffindor Chaser.

James came to the conclusion that she was a diabolical one, that Lily Evans. Taunting him with this rotten, distasteful ruse masquerading as a straightforward, simple bet. She knew it'd drive him mad when he wasn't able to figure it out. A month, she had given him. At the time, he thought that a month was a ridiculously ample amount of time. James scoffed at that notion now. That month had passed by in a blink of an eye.

-

"_There's your patrolling schedule and the hallways you're assigned to, mate," James said brightly, passing Remus a parchment with all the aforementioned information. "Watch out for those unruly rapscallions, and be safe now," he said, tossing Remus a wink. That was as much as James dared to lord his Head Boy position over Remus. He had to be good and proper now. Although to be honest, he'd have probably never gotten the position if it wasn't for Remus's "furry little problem" that would've prevented Remus from devoting himself fully to the job._

_Nevertheless, James was giddy to begin and he felt he was doing a bang-up job so far at this preliminary Prefect meeting. Remus rolled his eyes and snatched the parchment from James's hands. James grinned at him and moved onto the next prefect who happened to be from Ravenclaw._

_While explaining the parchment to the Ravenclaw prefect, James glanced __surreptitiously at Lily. She was smiling and pointing to a couple of things on her parchment to a prefect as well, but her shoulders were tense. James sighed. He knew that she wasn't that pleased when she found out that he was Head Boy._

_Lily's gaze shot up to meet his and, after initially being startled and embarrassed at being caught, James smiled and waved, in hopes of being friendly. Lily smiled back, the corners of her lips tight and uncomfortable. As he heard her footsteps approaching, James quickly tried to finish explaining to the prefect._

"_James," she said, tapping his shoulder lightly to get his attention. The sound of her voice saying his name sent a peculiar tingle down his spine. James speedily sent off the prefect and turned around, putting on his most charming smile. "Yes, Lily?" he asked._

"_Well, I just... er, wanted to say that I'm looking forward to working with you this year," she stated formally while holding out her hand expectantly._

"_Oh, of course!" he replied cheerily, shaking her hand enthusiastically. "I'm looking forward to working with you as well."_

_A beat of silence passed between them._

_James shifted awkwardly and glanced down at the books that Lily was carrying. She was actually decent to him. A doodle of a flower was on the corner of her Charms book caught his eye and, at a paltry attempt at making conversation, he asked her, "So, what's your favourite flower?"_

_Taken off guard, Lily frowned and said, "What?"_

_He pointed at the drawing and responded, "Just wondering."_

"_Oh. It doesn't really matter," she replied, a strange emptiness in her tone, as she turned around and began putting her things away._

_James laughed. "Well, now it does. You've piqued my curiosity, Lily Evans."_

"_Is that so?" she said sarcastically. James could practically see her exasperated expression in his mind's eye, even though her face was hidden behind the curtain of her flaming hair._

"_I bet I could guess," he said teasingly, leaning against the wall of the compartment._

_Lily scoffed. "You probably could actually."_

"_Hmm." James tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Lillies?" he inquired, going for the obvious._

"_Yeah, I've never heard _that_ one before," she replied, a derisive edge to her voice._

"_Sunflowers, then?" James thought that that would be delightful. Sunflowers suited Lily's personality._

"_No."_

_Undeterred, he asked, "Lilacs?"_

"_No."_

"_Freesia?"_

"_Nope."_

_Grinning deviously, James said, "Mistletoe?"_

"_Absolutely not! For Merlin's sake, James!" she exclaimed, looking affronted._

_He chuckled. "Is it dandelions then?"_

_Lily groaned. "No, James. No, it isn't."_

_James made a face and Lily shook her head and said, "I'm going to get going, James. I'll see you at Hogwarts."_

"_Wait! You can't just leave me hanging like this!" he blurted, still dumbfounded as to what her favourite flower was. He knew he would not let this go._

_And, Lily apparently did too as she rolled her eyes and said "Listen it's not a big deal. Just leave it, alright?"_

"_Well, I don't understand why you're being so protective of it. It's not like it's a big secret or anything. At least, it shouldn't be." James lifted an eyebrow as Lily crossed her arms._

"_What do I have to do to get you to let me off?" she asked sharply. "I don't you want bothering me for the rest of this year about it."_

"_Maybe we can have a good talk about it during the first Hogsmeade visit?" As soon as he said it, James knew he shouldn't have, but it was probably best to get it out of his system sooner rather than later._

_Lily huffed. "No."_

"_Well, not to be unprofessional or anything, but I'm not going to let this go."_

"_How is that not being unprofessional?"_

"_I'm Head Boy. I'm never unprofessional."_

_Lily scowled at his skewed logic. She took a deep breath to calm herself and said, "Potter. Now, let's not get off on the wrong foot."_

_James knew he was treading on thin ice, but he was feeling reckless and foolhardy. "I'd still like to know what it is. Would like to make a deal, Lily Evans?" he asked with his most winsome smile. __He shot her an uncertain look, eyebrows raised in question, barely concealing his eagerness._

_"Is it going to get you acting like an adult?" she seethed._

"_If that's what you want."_

_She tapped her foot impatiently. "What's the deal?"_

"_I will only you bother you about your favourite flower for one month. That's it. If I happen to guess it, we'll spend an hour together at the first Hogsmeade visit. Just an hour," he proposed, knowing full well that she would probably just brush him off and leave infuriated._

"_Together?" she asked disdainfully. James felt a flicker of hope in his chest. There was a chance – a slight, infinitesimal chance that she would take him seriously._

_He jumped at the chance and said hurriedly, "Together in whatever way you want. In a professional capacity or... anything else. Friends, even."_

_She took a deep breath. "No, Potter. It's way too easy for you. I'm telling you right here, right now, my favourite flower is _not_ a big deal."_

"_Oh, come on now!" he exclaimed, throwing his hands up in protest. "I'm telling _you_ right here, right now that I am most definitely _not_ a sensational guesser. Ask Sirius! He's the guesser! I'm the mastermind. I have no remarkable guessing expertise whatsoever."_

"_Well, what's in it for me? I have everything to lose and you have everything to gain," she pointed out._

_Everything to gain is right, James thought to himself. Lily Evans was everything._

_He yanked himself out of his reverie and scrambled to organize his thoughts into a coherent sentence. "If I can't guess it... I'll do all the grunt work for Head Boy and Girl, of course... " he trailed off. But, after an expectant look from Lily, James added while swallowing thickly, "And I promise to keep our relationship strictly professional."_

_Still suspicious, she said, "No nasty tricks either. I don't need any Veritaserum in my pumpkin juice. Or anything else you have up your sleeve."_

"_Promise," he agreed, "There's nothing up my sleeve except my extremely muscular forearm. Which you'll be holding onto for an hour in Hogsmeade."_

"_No."_

_James grumbled. "Oh, fine. Deal?"_

_Lily glowered at him, her expression still one of doubtful disdain. "No nasty tricks, James. Deal."_

_-_

James bent down to his battered book bag and rummaged around, tossing quills, books, and ink bottles onto the floor until he retrieved a crumpled piece of parchment. He hastily smoothed the wrinkles, adjusted his glasses, and stared at the names of endless flowers that Harvey (a 4th year Herbology enthusiast he had tracked down 15 minutes after the bet had been made) had given him. Concentration was evident in the grooves of his forehead as he glared at the page, frustrated that out of all these blasted flowers, not one of them was Lily's favourite. Most of the parchment was covered in erratic scrawls as he had crossed out name after name in the last month. There were only five left, and James was pretty sure that he wouldn't be able to name any more off the top of his head.

The click of a doorknob turning sounded and James stuffed the parchment in his pocket and scrambled up.

Peter, Remus, and Sirius bounded in gleefully from breakfast, talking loudly as they gathered their things for their first class.

"James, you alright there?" Remus said, curiosity tinting his voice.

"Oh, don't mind him Moody. He's just being moony," Sirius said, laughing at what he thought was a clever remark. Remus rolled his eyes.

"No, seriously though," Sirius continued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Isn't this the last day for 'Operation Salvation'?" James reluctantly nodded.

"And, how many flowers have you guessed by now?" Peter asked, amusement evident in his tone.

James took out the parchment blackened with scribbles out of his pocket and unfolded it. Holding it at eye-level, the parchment's length went all the way down to his knees.

Sirius whistled, low and long. "Damn, Prongs. You must want her bad."

James frowned. He hadn't thought of Lily as a conquest for a while now. He fancied her, plain and simple. He loved her laugh, her bright green eyes, her witty quips, and the way she would secretly doodle instead of meticulously take notes in class. No, he didn't want her. The past two years of rejection hadn't left him with enough confidence to expect that anymore.

James shook his head and proceeded to fold the parchment back up. "No, mate. I just want her to give me a _chance_. That's all."

-

"Hey, James!" called a familiar, rich voice in the hallway, accompanied by the patter of hurried footsteps. James turned around and slowed his pace to match Lily's, who had caught up to his side.

"Narcissus?" he asked her, this type of greeting already familiar to both of them.

"No," Lily replied shortly and James inwardly sighed as made a mental note to cross that name off his parchment. "Anyway," she continued, "Are you free tonight?"

"Tonight? _The _last night? Oh, rubit in, why don't you, Lily?" he said bitterly.

She laughed. She was in a good mood, he noticed. "Oh, come on, James," she said lightly, a smile playing on her lips, "Be _professional_. We have to switch the hallways that the Prefects are assigned to. Otherwise, _some _people, will know which Prefects and the hallways they're monitoring are most susceptible and plan their little _excursions _there." She gave him a knowing look and he knew she meant the Marauders and their pranks. It was a classic strategy – scope out the weak Prefects and do the most damage there. It was an amateur scheme, but still hilariously funny.

When he didn't answer, she gave a little impatient sigh. "Well?"

He looked at her and raised his eyebrows. "Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight." She gazed at him with those big, emerald eyes glittering slightly, and James knew he was done.

He surrendered warily. "Alright, I'm free…"

"Great! Now where do you want to meet? Not the Library, preferably. It's very embarrassing when the Head Boy and Girl get kicked out just for discussing important issues," she said, making a face at the memory. Now it was James's turn to laugh.

"The Common Room?" he suggested.

Lily snorted. "Yeah, exactly where _some _people can eavesdrop on us. That's a definite no."

"Marigolds?"

"No."

James swore profusely in his head.

"How about the Staff Room?" she recommended, "I'm sure McGonagall will let us use it."

James nodded vaguely, his mind on the flowers that hadn't yet been eliminated. "Sounds good," he replied. "Junipers?"

"Nope."

The buzz of obscenities in James's head grew ever louder.

-

James headed towards the Staff Room a few hours after supper. He adjusted his book bag on his shoulder and waved brightly to Lady Birgit Lamoreaux, a painting of a flirty, coquettish woman who always winked at him. He winked back sometimes too.

As Head Boy, James often had late nights. Tonight seemed quiet and sombre. The dusky starlight filtered through the massive windows in the corridor, illuminating the swirling dust with a faint glow. The detached sound of silence, disturbed only by his footsteps, echoed in his ears. It hadn't been a good day. He hadn't seen Lily since they decided on meeting in the Staff Room and James only had two flowers left to guess. He hoped with a fierce hope that, by some miracle, one of them would be her favourite.

He didn't know what he would do if either of them weren't the one. It would be over then. James didn't think he had the heart to take any more rejection. It had taken its toll on him and James felt like he had had his share.

Just as he was turning the corner to the room, he staggered back as someone thudded against his chest. He glanced down, confused, to see a head of red hair and he extended his arms to steady her.

"Sorry! Sorry, James. I'm really sorry," Lily stammered dimly. She pushed herself away from his arms and kept her head down, although James could still see some of her expression through strands of her auburn hair. Her bottom lip quivered and her forehead was creased with worry. Her hands were fists down her sides and her legs fidgeted anxiously, as if wanting to run away. She gulped and said, "Err, can we possibly reschedule? Something came up."

Apprehension filled James and a feeling of unease settled over him. It must've been very upsetting to have her cancel an appointment. "Yeah, Lily," he replied gently, "Of course. Any time you want, just tell me."

"Okay, thanks. I'll see you later, I guess," she mumbled, pressing past him.

James took a deep breath and called out, "Lily?"

She stopped suddenly and, without turning around, asked, "Yes?"

"What's wrong?" he inquired cautiously.

She began walking and the echo of her voice rang out in the cold hallway as she said, "Have a good night, James."

And he watched her as she swiftly made her way down the shadowy corridor, the heels of her shoes clacking against the hard, grey stone.

-

The creak that the trapdoor to the Astronomy tower made was loud in the tranquil night. The brass handle of the door was cool in his grip, and the autumn wind nipped playfully at him. He scanned the parapets until he spotted the frame of someone sitting on the floor.

"Hello, Lily," he whispered quietly, carefully sitting down by her. She seemed so delicate, her figure a silhouette in the moonlight, wisps of her hair billowing in the wind. This was a Lily he hadn't seen before – a vulnerable Lily, sad and tender. So different from the fierce and cheeky Lily he had admired all these years.

James's greeting was a strange comfort to Lily, the concern and warmth colouring his deep voice made her feel at ease and her shoulders relaxed. He had only said two words, but already it seemed a bit less empty. Already it seemed a bit less alone.

But, she couldn't afford to be soft towards him now. "Who told you I was here?" she asked, straining to make her tone sharp and unforgiving. Her eyes betrayed her – eyes that were weary and brimming with hurt and disappointment.

"The Fat Lady," he replied calmly. Lily wrapped her arms around her knees, and he did the same, glancing sideways at her as she stared longingly into the black sky held up by pinpoint stars.

Lily exhaled heavily. "She has a big mouth."

"The Fat Lady has a big everything" he said dryly.

James grinned as he saw a small smile tug on the corners of her lips. She couldn't help herself. The man was a bundle of irritating positivity.

"Magnolias?" he asked her pleasantly.

"Not quite, James."

"....I suppose it wouldn't happen to be chrysanthemums then, would it?" he said, his voice swelling with hope.

"I'm sorry, but no."

James sighed, crestfallen. He felt an oppressive burden fall upon his heart. "I guess you'll be happy to know that that's the last one I've got. You win."

"Mmm," she responded softly. For a few moments, the air was still and the pair sat silently, gazing out into the inky darkness, each one confined to their own thoughts. James's arm lightly brushed against Lily's and he peered at her curiously.

His voice, almost ragged, broke over the silence. "Just for giggles, what is it, really? I'll stay true to my word, don't worry. I'd just like to know."

Lily looked away and indistinctly mumbled something he couldn't hear.

"Pardon?"

Lily could feel the familiar burn of tears in her eyes now. She bit her bottom lip, clenched her fists, and leaned her head on her knees so that her hair shrouded her face. She made no movement, and she was determined to make no sound.

James wanted so badly to reach out and just hold her.

"Petunias," she muttered finally, a hard edge to her voice.

"Petunias?" he echoed, his tone hollow. Bloody petunias. He would hate them for the rest of his life. Familiarity flickered in the back of his mind and he asked, "Your sister?"

She nodded slowly. "She left home in the middle of the night to live with her boyfriend. Got a letter from Mum and Dad this morning, but I never had a chance to read it until tonight. The note she left said she couldn't handle living with a _freak_," she uttered in a low voice.

Lily angrily wiped at her face and clenched her fists. "Years. It's been years since we've been on good terms. Ever since magic, ever since Sev - " She abruptly cut herself off, breathing fast. "I just... I just didn't know she hated me this much. I don't even know why I feel so torn up about it. But, why now? It's not safe out there, not with the War. I'm just so scared," she admitted, her voice shaking.

James looked down, his own breathing slow and steady. The War. Hogwarts had been a safe haven for them, but it was a haven they only had a year left in. Outside of it, they would be trapped, trapped in a world of despair and death. He had already known for a while now that he wanted to fight back. He was not just going sit idle like much of the Wizarding World, letting that _evil_ take over. He didn't want Lily to have to live in a world like that.

She suddenly looked at him, her eyes wide and open. She was letting him in, he realized, trusting him with her emotions, putting a bit of herself in his hands to safeguard.

Then she said the most unexpected thing, being candid and straightforward like only she could be, "So what I'm trying to say, minus the drama, is that life sucks right now."

He smiled, a breath of laughter escaping. "Yeah, it tends to do that at times."

She leaned against his shoulder, breathing in his scent, and closed her eyes. Hesitantly, her hand found his and it didn't really feel like it said in the stories where it seemed like they were made for each other. No, his hand, calloused and rough, was much larger than her small one, where the knuckles were prominent on her thin fingers. No, it wasn't like the stories at all, for this hand-holding was awkward and clumsy. Yet, in the midst of it all - in the intertwining of their fingers – everything fell away. All the worries and the troubles ceased to exist, and there was peace.


	20. Recipient & Writer List

_Here is a list of all the fics that were included in this collaboration. It tells who wrote what, and who it was for. Thank you all for participating!_

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**Fic One: **She will always have laughter

For Realmer06 - by WhiskeyTangofoxtrot

**Fic Two:** The Better Luck Club

For FirstYear - by Duco Lacuna

**Fic Three:** Unconventional

For Duco Lacuna - by respitechristopher

**Fic Four:** Dust underfoot

For Cuban Sombrero Girl - by Lady Altair

**Fic Five:** The hour of our death

For Elledreamer - by Qoheleth

**Fic Six:** Disillusionment charms

For WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot - by Deluxe Sugar Quills

**Fic Seven:** Perfect strangers

For mustardgirl118 - by Cuban Sombrero Girl

**Fic Eight: **A time to laugh

For TheWordFountain - by Elledreamer

**Fic Nine: **Firenze's divination

For Kore-of-Myth - by FirstYear

**Fic Ten:** Understanding

For Lady Altair - by Bad Mum

**Fic Eleven: **Keeping it simple

For xoxcrescentmoonxox - by TheWordFountain

**Fic Twelve:** lilies that fester

For Qoheleth - by Realmer06

**Fic Thirteen: **Hannah Abbot

For Deluxe Sugar Quills - by xoxcrescentmoonxox

**Fic Fourteen:** Full circle

For Bad Mum - by Riiko Shea

**Fic Fifteen: **Goodbyes

For Zellah - by mustardgirl118

**Fic Sixteen:** An undeserving man

For The Awkward Turtle by WhiskeyTangoFoxtrot

**Fic Seventeen: **A split second's realization

For Riiko Shea - by FirstYear

**Fic Eighteen:** Agony uncle

For respitechristopher - by Bad Mum

**Fic Nineteen: **Here's a hand to hold onto

For Beefcake the Mightly - by The Awkward Turtle


End file.
